


Getting To Know You

by BitKahuna



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, John's parents and childhood are so vague that I'm making up my own thing, Johnlock - Freeform, Light Angst, M/M, Mary never happened, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Post-Reichenbach, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2019-10-02 13:19:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 68,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17264900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BitKahuna/pseuds/BitKahuna
Summary: It’s been about a year since Sherlock’s return. It’s taken some healing, explanations, and adjustment. But Sherlock’s living with John once again.Though some things have changed, a lot has remained the same.One thing that’s changed is that Sherlock has realized there’s a lot about John that he never knew. He’s also realized that he likes John a lot more than he used to.As Sherlock realizes how much of a mystery John is, and his feelings continue to grow, how will the world’s only consulting detective cope?





	1. The Mysterious Origin of John Watson

**Author's Note:**

> JUST A QUICK NOTE - I’m gonna mix in some things from Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock. ex: In Doyle’s version his parents have never been named. So I’m gonna play with that, hard. I’m essentially making up a backstory for John.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock realized there are many things he never knew about John.

Sherlock could tell you almost anything about John Watson. Where he was born, who his sister is, his education, life, service in the military. There were very few details that Sherlock missed. But those details happened to be huge parts of John’s life.

He didn’t know John’s middle name, and he knew nothing of John’s parents.

He asked Mycroft about John’s parent’s once, but to his surprise, Mycroft didn’t know either.

“What do you mean you don’t know? You spy on everyone I interact with.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, “Yes, but there are some things I can’t seem to dig up. I don’t know anything before he started grammar school. Don’t know where he was born, or who his parents are.”

“You’re telling me you can’t find his birth certificate?!” Sherlock didn’t believe that for a second. Until he saw his brother slowly nodding. It was quite a shock.

It almost irritated Sherlock to think that there were crucial details about John that he had missed. But it made him ever more curious to think that those details were like a secret that John had.

Certainly John has a birth certificate. He served in the army, you need a birth certificate for that.

\- - - - -

“John? Who are your parents?” Sherlock asked on a random Tuesday afternoon.

John looked up from his paper, a bit surprised. “My parents? Why are you suddenly interested in them?”

“Because, I’ve come to realize that your parents are one of the few things I don’t know about you.”

John only tilted his head, “Why does it matter?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, “Oh. Do you not want to talk about them? It’s alright if you don’t. I was only curious.”

John knew how hard Sherlock tried to show more empathy, especially with him. Sherlock has always been capable of empathy, he just wasn’t as good with expressing it. But he was trying. So John felt a bit bad for avoiding it and decided to give Sherlock a bit of closure.

“I don’t know much about them, honestly. I don’t know who they are, or maybe were. We’re orphans, Harry and I.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. He expected to hear a brief story about how John lived in a small town with his parents and sister, and they all lived a cookie-cutter life, and his dad was perhaps a military man and that’s what inspired John to strive to be a doctor and eventually enlist in the army.

“Who raised you then?”

Perhaps John was just an orphan who didn’t know his parents. That made sense. That was normal.

“Acacia. She helped us till we got here.”

John’s answers weren’t making things clearer for Sherlock, he was only growing more confused. Somehow he couldn’t deduce anything from John’s behavior. He spoke as if he was telling a story that he didn’t like.

“Till you got here?” Sherlock prompted, though he was a bit hesitant since he could tell John wasn’t entirely happy about talking about his past.

John was silent a moment. He stared at the floor, thinking. But he wasn’t just thinking, Sherlock could tell he was making a decision.

John took a deep breath and then looked back up at Sherlock, “Sherlock, if I tell you this .....” he trailed off, as if he wasn’t sure how to go about it.

“Sherlock. I’m about to tell you a story I’ve never told anyone. Me and Harry don’t even talk about it. If I tell you this, you can’t tell anyone else.” He felt himself get a bit overwhelmed. “No one at all. You-I... can’t tell anyone. _I_ can’t tell anyone, I can’t. I’m sorry, Sherlock. I can’t tell you. I’m not suppose to tell anyone. I can’t.”

Sherlock was too enthralled in learning about John to let this go so easily. Something about it all was just too strange. Something terrible happened, something John couldn't deal with. Sherlock had to know. Even if John didn't want to talk about it right now, Sherlock knew he would eventually figure it out.

“John, I swear to you the moment you tell me your story, I’ll lock it away in the deepest part of my mind. I’ll tell no one. I swear it.”

John looked at Sherlock, his eyes were full of regret. “I want to tell you Sherlock, I really do. But I.” He stopped, taking a few deep breaths, “I don’t think I’m ready to admit that it happened. Because if I admit it happened then I have to deal with the fact that it happened.”

It was then that Sherlock understood. Something terrible happened that John’s been ignoring instead of dealing with it. But he still had to know. Even if John didn't want him to. Sherlock decided then and there that he would find out, although he doesn't want to hurt John, he has to know.

“Alright. But if you ever wanted to, you know I won’t judge you.”

“Of course.”

\- - - - -

Sherlock was never sure if it was due to that conversation with John, or if it was due to other reasons, but he finds himself thinking of John quite often. Of course, he’s always had thoughts of John, but they didn’t used to be as common as they’ve become. It was nearly daily now. But what was he meant to do? Banish a thought of his flatmate? Of course not.

It was starting to get a bit suspicious. He wasn't sure why he was thinking of John so often. John's past wasn't the only thing he would find himself thinking of. He thought of John's smile, his eyes, his hair, his laugh, his clothes, his face, everything. He had never experienced such intrusive thoughts before and it was somewhat confusing to him. Why should he care so much for John's impartially handsome face.

He didn't quite understand. But he aimed to figure it all out in due time.


	2. Never Have I Ever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock accompanies John to his Sunday afternoon bar hopping with Lestrade and some of his friends from the Yard. They both learn new things about each other.

Sherlock wasn’t sure what persuaded him to join John and Lestrade in their bar hopping, but he found himself in a small bar with them a few hours after lunch.

They were waiting on some of Lestrade’s friends who usually went along with them. Donovan and Anderson were two of the four they were waiting on. The other two he hadn’t met before.

Donovan and Anderson arrived only a few minutes after Lestrade and talked with everyone, even Sherlock. They had gotten a lot nicer since Sherlock came back. Sherlock reciprocated by getting a bit nicer as well. Though it was still a little bit uncomfortable, it was a lot better than how it was.

“Donovan, how’s your boyfriend?” Sherlock said with a mostly blank face, but he sounded pleased.

Donovan smiled, “Good, finally got over the flu. Thanks for helping me out, I never would’ve met him if it wasn’t for you.”

Sherlock only shrugged, “When I met him at the crime scene I could tell that you two would be compatible, I was only worried it wouldn’t be appropriate to try to set you up with a grieving man. Thankfully his grandmother wasn’t that close to him.”

Donovan chuckled, “My god, Sherlock.”

“Please, I’m pagan.” Sherlock did have a sense of humor after all, he just didn’t show it until he was comfortable around someone. Though he still spoke in a slightly sarcastic tone, his face was still mostly blank besides a small smile.

The other two friends to arrive were a couple, Alice and Lativia. Sherlock recognized them from Scotland Yard, though he’s never spoken to them before.

He introduced himself and of course they knew who he was. After some light conversation they were all sitting at a table together with drinks. Everyone had beers, sitting at a booth in the shape of a semi-circle in the corner of the bar. Although Sherlock wasn't a big fan of beer, he settled with something light.

Lestrade smiled, “So, shall we go with the usual?” Everyone seemed to agree. Except Sherlock. Sherlock was utterly lost.

“Oh, Sherlock. Do you know how to play Never Have I Ever?” Anderson asked and Sherlock tilted his head, “It sounds familiar.” He probably has played it as some point but decided that it wasn't important enough to keep in his mind palace.

Alice explained, “Someone will start the game by saying ‘never have I ever’, followed by something they’ve never done before, but that others at the table might have. If you’ve done it before, you drink. If you haven’t, you do nothing. Then it keeps going around until people start getting too drunk.”

Sherlock nodded, “I suppose I’ll play.”

The game was on.

The first few rounds left nothing for Sherlock to interact with. Never have I ever “snuck someone into my room”, “played hooky and gotten away with it”, “cheated on a final exam”, etc.

Until it started getting good.

Donovan smirked and said, “Never have I ever had sex with a girl.”

Everyone except her and Sherlock drank.

Then Anderson’s turn came around and he said, “Never have I ever had sex with a guy.”

Only Donovan, John, and Sherlock drank.

Everyone stared at John and Sherlock.

Sherlock and John stared at each other.

They hadn’t known about the other.

“I’m bisexual.” John explained.

“I am a homosexual.” Sherlock responded. He found himself editing the information he had on John in his mind.

The game continued until it got to Sherlock’s turn. “Never have I ever, had an allergic reaction.” Sherlock didn’t happen to be allergic to anything so it thought it was pretty clever.

Soon it got to the point where people were less concerned about naming things they hadn’t done, and were more curious to see what wild things others might have done.

“Never have I ever performed on a stage.” Alice said.

Sherlock, John, and Lativia drank.

Lativia explained that she used to do theatre and John briefly mentioned his days as a clarinet player in school.

Sherlock mentioned his love of dance. “I did a lot of dance when I was younger. Tap, jazz, interpretive, ballet. Ballet was my favorite, I loved ballet. Still do.”

John raised an eyebrow, “Ballet? I had no idea.”

Sherlock shrugged, “It never came up in a case so I never mentioned it. I can still perform Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy from The Nutcracker.”

Sherlock didn’t drink again until Anderson said he’d never dyed his hair an unnatural color.

He was the only one who drank. “I’ve bleached my hair and dyed it lavender a few times. I liked pastels in uni.” He mumbled.

He drank once more when Lestrade said something about a secret tattoo or piercing.

Again, he was the only one who drank. He moved his hair to reveal that he had a silver helix piercing. “It isn’t exactly a secret, but I also didn’t tell anyone I did it.”

He noticed John was staring at it a bit. He raised an eyebrow, “Want to touch it?” He didn’t really think that John wanted to touch it, but he soon saw John’s hand slowly rising.

John played with the ring, pushing it through it’s hole and twisting it some. “I like it.” He said softly, bringing his hand back.

Sherlock gave a nod and then they went back to the game.

Sherlock drank again when Lestrade said he’s never seduced someone for a case, and he drank once more when Lativia said she’s never been paid for her sexual services.

Sherlock only shrugged at the shocked stares he got for that one. “I was in a bit of a rut at uni. Had to pay for it somehow. So, I offered my services. You’d be surprised how many men were in the closet in uni, or who were willing to try. It didn’t matter when they knew I wasn’t going to gossip.”

“You were a prostitute.” Anderson chuckled.

Sherlock nodded, “That’s why I get along with them. I know most of the prostitutes in London. Well, the ones doing it of their own free will.”

Lestrade opened his mouth and Sherlock was quick to shut him down. “I’m not a snitch, Lestrade. They’re often crucial to solving cases. They see everything.”

Lestrade didn’t probe any further. Besides, he was less concerned about prostitutes who were doing it of their own free will and was more concerned about those who weren’t.

“Never have I ever fantasized about someone in this room.” Lestrade said.

Of course Lativia and Alice drank since they were a couple. Anderson and Donovan did too since they’ve slept together before. But surprisingly, John also drank.

Sherlock didn’t question it, but he was a bit surprised. He didn’t assume it was him that John thought about, but for some reason, he briefly hoped it was.

Sherlock had learned quite a bit about John from the game. He’s driven drunk, been kicked out of a bar, snogged in a movie theater, kept up a lie for over a year, given a lap dance, cried at Titanic, woken up somewhere he didn’t fall asleep, and he’s smuggled something across a border. He didn’t elaborate on that last one.

Sherlock decided not to ask.

At first he assumed that John had a wild time in the army or something, but he then remembered their conversation about John’s past. He wondered if it had anything to do with that.

Still, Sherlock decided not to ask questions.

After their game, they all went to another bar where they drank away another hour. Two bars later and Sherlock was helping John stumble into a cab.

When they arrived home, Sherlock had a fun time dragging John up the stairs while John reminisced on their night aloud.

“I can’t believe I never saw your piercing! I love it!” John exclaimed with a laugh.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “Of course, how rude of me to never mention it.”

“It’s really hot.”

Sherlock froze a moment and blushed lightly. He helped John into their flat and decided that maybe John didn’t mean it. It was only drunk rambling.

But he knew that John did mean it. Alcohol doesn’t make you a different person, it only takes away your inhibitions. You do and say things without a concern for consequences.

Sherlock got John into his room and pushed him into the bed.

John giggled and winked, “I didn’t think you’d be interested in older men, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sighed, “John, you’re drunk. I won’t do anything when you aren’t sober.”

“What about while I’m sober?”

Sherlock stared at him a moment before answering, “I’d do anything to you, so long as you were sober.”

Sherlock only said it because he knew it was likely that John wouldn’t remember it.

\- - - - -

That morning, John remembered everything.


	3. Clever Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock asks about some of the wild things John confessed to the previous day. John, being hungover and on some medicine, indulges him without thinking.

John woke up with a groan. His head hurt some. He felt like he’d drunk his weight in beer the day before, not to mention the tequila shots that Alice had talked him in to. He rarely did anything harder than beer, which wasn’t actually that alcoholic compared to most drinks.

He rolled out of bed and took a shower, the warm water helped to alleviate his headache, and his stomach was a bit less queasy as well. He got out and put on pajamas.

His job at the hospital had him working Tuesday to Thursday, he had weekends off, and he was on call Monday. He hoped that they wouldn’t call him in, because he would be quite useless.

He went downstairs and into the kitchen, opening up the medicine cabinet and searching for some pain relievers. He looked at the dosage and as a doctor, determined that three pills would be enough, even though the recommended amount was two.

Dr. Watson would also recommend that no one follow his example.

Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table, mulling over his cup of tea. He looked up at John and watched him take one too many pills, but he knew John would be fine. Even though he seemed to have no concern for his health in the moment.

“Feeling okay?” Sherlock asked, knowing the answer.

“That tequila was a fucking mistake.” John said softly, he sat at the table and put his head down on his arms, which were folded before him on the table.

Sherlock poured him a cup of tea and John gave him a nod of thanks.

“Can you go, uh, turn the sun down. It’s too bright.” John whispered, his ears soon filling with Sherlock’s deep bass laugh. It was quite relaxing. It nearly sent a shiver down John's spine, but he made sure to hold it back.

“You should know I can’t. But I can close the blinds.” He offered, standing to go to the windows in the sitting room.

John smiled when their flat became dimmer. He lifted his head up and took a sip from his mug.

Sherlock joined him at the table again and raised an eyebrow. “You confessed to some interesting things yesterday.” He kept his voice low since he knew John’s head was hurting.

John nodded, “I’ve done some shit you wouldn’t believe.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Oh? How about the time you supposedly drove drunk?”

“Mm, I was in uni. We were at a party, me and some friends. One of them was a girl, uhh, Noni. Her ex was there. He wouldn’t leave her alone. Our friend Tom tried to get him to back off but he wouldn't. I drove Noni back to her dorm cause she wasn’t comfortable. I was so fuckin hammered I thought I was gonna die. I had to pull over six times cause I kept panicking.” He couldn't help but to let out a laugh at his own story. "I was so scared. I thought I was gonna kill someone and I ran three red lights."

Sherlock smiled a bit. He felt his heart warm to know that even when John broke the law it was for a noble cause. Of course it didn't surprise him either. John was always looking out for others.

“What about when you kept up a lie for over a year?”

“That was when I lied about my name.”

“For over a year?”

John nodded, hardly even paying attention to what he was saying because he was finally feeling the effects of the medicine, he was still tired, he was mostly focused on his headache, and his tea warmed him into relaxation.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “Why?”

“Mmm, I can’t tell you.”

Sherlock frowned, “Does it have something to do with your past?”

John nodded, “Yea. I can’t talk about those days.”

“Why not?”

“Because it didn’t happen.”

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows, “What didn’t happen?”

“Any of it. If you don’t talk about it, it didn’t happen.” He gave a nonchalant shrug.

Sherlock was getting a bit concerned at how secretive he was being. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust John, it was more that John felt he couldn’t trust him.

“You can trust me, John.”

John shook his head. “I can’t tell anyone.”

Sherlock decided not to press, though he did feel a bit bad for trying to get information out of John while he was in such a vulnerable state.

“What about when you said you snuck something over a border? What was it you snuck?”

“Her.” Was all John said.

“Why?”

“I promised. It was all for her. Everything I did was for her.”

“Who is she?”

“My sister.”

He snuck his sister across a border. He was certainly talking about some incident when he was a soldier and he had to get his sister to safety or something. But his sister never served.

Sherlock couldn’t really figure out what was going on. Sherlock had no explanation for what he was hearing.

He spent a moment just watching John. Then he asked, “Why don’t you want to acknowledge the past?”

“It’s better to move on. It was terrible, left me stressed for years. Then I finally get comfortable. I don’t want to go digging it up again. I can’t ruin everything I’ve worked to hard to get.”

“What have you worked to hard to get?”

“This life.”

Sherlock had never been so curious in his life. No case he’s ever had could hold a candle to what John was saying. It was so vague, and John was so careful with his words. Intentional or not, John’s didn’t give anything away. Not even a hint. It amazed Sherlock how cautious John managed to be, while also being slightly handicapped by his hungover and sluggish state. It only furthered how interesting the mystery was.

Sherlock smiled, happy to know his greatest mystery yet had been in his flat this entire time.

As much as he hated it, he felt the urge to consult Mycroft. Not only to share the information, and possibly have even more dug up, but he also wanted to brag about his latest case: Dr. John Watson.

John soon realized what he had been doing and he was overcome with a wave of anxiety that settled in the pit of his stomach.

He looked up at Sherlock hesitantly. “Don’t, Sherlock.” He warned in a firm tone.

Sherlock only raised an eyebrow. “Don’t what?” But he couldn’t hide the excitement in his eyes.

“Don’t go snooping, or digging. Don’t go asking questions, don’t even try to talk to Harry. Don’t go around where you shouldn’t be. There is absolutely nothing left but memories. So don’t even try, because there’s nothing to find.”

There was a determination and confidence in his eyes that Sherlock struggled not to take as a challenge.

John was so sure of himself. So certain that Sherlock wouldn’t be able to find anything. It didn’t diminish his urge to try, he wanted to, so badly. But he also didn’t want to hurt John.

Sherlock made a decision. He decided he wouldn’t ask much more, he wouldn’t even talk to Harry. But, he might snoop and pry, he may even encourage Mycroft to do so. Make it a competition.

He just needed to know but he knew John wouldn’t tell him. He figured once he knew, his curiosity would be satisfied and he would never need to ask John about it again. He took it as being good enough.

John was nervous. He knew Sherlock and he knew that words wouldn’t stop him. But he was still confident enough about how buried his past was, so he didn’t do anything more to try and stop Sherlock from prying. He knew Sherlock would try, he was only telling him what a waste of time it would be.

He watched Sherlock think, then stand up and quickly walk off.

He rolled his eyes and moved to the sitting room to relax in his chair. He finished his tea and sat down with his eyes closed. He hoped he might fall asleep again.

Sherlock rushed to find his phone, he was going to call Mycroft.

The phone rang twice and then Mycroft answered. “It’s about John, isn’t it?”

Sherlock grinned, “He’s confessed to a few things but he hasn’t given any details.”

“What?”

“He’s snuck Harriet across a border, said everything he’s ever done was for her, that he went by a different name for over a year. He also said that he’s worked hard to get this life.”

“Almost like rags to riches, but it seems much more extreme.”

“Could it have been that he was some sort of refugee?”

“No. Another interesting thing on John is that although I have his and his sister’s school records, I don’t have record of a home until John was in Year 8 and Harry was in Year 10. There is also a suspicious absence of any medical records, insurance, identity. He had nothing besides his school records. I can’t even tell you how he bought clothes.”

“Could he have been homeless? A homeless orphan.”

Mycroft was silent a moment, pondering over the thought. “That would make sense. The homeless have to do terrible things to survive sometimes, and children are no exception. He could have had to do some nasty things that he doesn’t want to discuss.”

Sherlock found it hard to imagine a toddler John going around, mugging people to pay for nappies and bibs. “It could’ve been his sister since she’s a bit older. That could explain the alcoholism.”

Mycroft hummed. “That’s also likely. So, homeless orphans who did what they had to do in order to survive. It would explain the lack of a paper trail and the lack of record until John was older. Their housing happened to be a small flat in a crowded and quite crime-ridden part of town. The kind of housing that people end up with when they can’t apply for government assistance, for various reasons.”

Sherlock huffed and tilted his head. “Are you trying to imply that they were criminals.”

“There’s no record of employment. They had to pay for the housing somehow. It’s in Harry’s name and John is listed as a resident. There’s no emergency contacts, no employment listed, nothing. But then again, so long as you can pay the bill, people in that area tend to not ask questions.”

Sherlock gave a nod. “I suppose it’s possible.” He admitted and there was a brief silence before Sherlock huffed. “Alright, it’s very likely. I didn’t realize we would be deducing John’s entire life rather than just his years as a toddler.”

Mycroft paused a moment, sifting through papers. “Might as well. I still can’t find his birth certificate. He’s lead a mysterious life. But he and Harry seem to be better now.”

“I suppose they are. Well, thank you for the help, brother.”

“Thank you for the game, Sherlock.”

They hung up and Sherlock felt much better knowing the likely truth.

Sherlock went into the sitting room and saw John was asleep on his chair. He smiled and got the blanket from the couch, laying it on John to keep him warm. He put another kettle on, knowing John would want more tea when he woke. He was going to tell John his theory and see if he was right but he didn’t want to disturb John. He knew John required sleep more than Sherlock did and he also was well acquainted with the effects of hangover. He took a seat on the couch, slowly entering his mind palace. Not to deduce anything further about John, but to update his knowledge.

One room in his mind palace was a replica of their sitting room. That’s where he stored all his information on John. As one could imagine, it was quite void of facts about his life before university. But now, it was full of theories, at the center was the most likely, what he and Mycroft had come up with today. Though he knew it could be wrong, it was a good starting point. That was better than nothing.

John soon woke and he could quickly tell Sherlock was in his head. He sighed, already wondering what Sherlock had tried to deduce about his past. Though he may have secrets, John is as honest as he can be. If Sherlock guesses something that’s correct, he won’t deny it. But there was no way he’d get the full story.

He stood and saw the kettle was nearly boiling over, he chuckled, knowing it was Sherlock’s doing. He appreciated little gestures like this, he’s also noticed that they’re a growing phenomenon. He’ll often wake up with the kettle already on, it was nearly a daily occurrence. He didn’t know why Sherlock had picked up this habit, but it was quite nice of him.

By the time John came back, Sherlock was bouncing his leg, out of his palace and eager to share his theories.

John smiled, “Thanks for putting the kettle on.”

“Oh, it’s no problem.”

Sherlock was about to say more, but John spoke up. “No, really. Thank you. You do it nearly every morning. Where did this come from?”

Sherlock was still a moment before shrugging. “I uh. I just thought it would be nice to do that for you. I’m up earlier than you anyways. So. I just thought .....” he trailed off, uncharacteristically out of things to say. He never really thought about it. He was trying to be nice and he figured putting the kettle on was a friendly gesture.

John gave a nod, “It is, I really appreciate it.” He took a deep breath. “Now, I can see you’re practically boiling over to tell me about everything you’ve deduced about me. So go ahead, let’s see what you’ve got.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak and then shut it, taken aback. “You, you seem very confident that I haven’t come up with anything correct.”

“It isn’t that what you’ve come up with won’t be true, it’s that it won’t be important.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “Oh, so your secrets run deeper than I thought?” He saw it now. They were like layers. Homelessness wasn’t a hard conclusion to come to, so he imagined that John had secrets that were much deeper than that. The real secrets he was trying to keep were even more complex than Sherlock imagined.

“Well, if you must know, I have figured one thing out. You and Harry were homeless orphans.”

John nodded, “Yep.” Was all he said.

Sherlock leaned back in his seat, “Well this is boring. What other secrets are you keeping? There’s no record of family in your life, no employment even though you and Harry had a flat, Mycroft can’t find your birth certificate, why can’t you tell me any of this? And don’t say it’s because you don’t want to face the past, or dig it back up. Don’t say it’ll ruin the life you’ve made because you aren’t going anywhere John. We’re in this together till the very bloody end!”

John was a bit surprised by Sherlock’s outburst. But he understood. He’d managed to break down every last one of Sherlock’s walls in their time together, and Sherlock thought he had done the same to John. Only to find out that it might not be so true.

“Sherlock, I’m honored that you would stand by me no matter what. Know that I’ll do the same for you. But, this. I just.” He took a deep breath and sighed, covering his face with his hands. He sounded unsure. “You have to understand that when I was a child, I was terrified. That fear grows as you do. The older I got and the more I understood, the more afraid I became.” The last part came only as a whisper.

Sherlock was still and silent a moment. He slowly got up, moving to stand before John and then bending down to give him a hug. He rarely initiated physical contact, but this was different, John was different.

“John, I promise you. No force on this earth could ever take us apart. You don’t have to be afraid. Whatever it is, I’ll keep you safe. I swear it.” He swallowed, “You don’t have to tell me John. You don’t have to tell me a thing. I pushed you too far-“

“No. No, Sherlock. Not telling anyone is the problem. I just don’t know how, I wouldn’t know where to begin. Just give me time Sherlock. I want to tell you, I do. I’m just not sure how.”

Sherlock was fine with that.


	4. A Slice of Life isn’t Apple Pie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John’s back in the hustle and bustle of the hospital, Sherlock’s checking out cases, and the mystical forces of the universe have decided that they ship Johnlock. All while Sherlock tries to learn more about John’s past, but in baby steps. He’s also trying to learn a bit more about his own emotions when he discovers his emotions had shifted around right under his nose.

It was a normal Thursday afternoon in 221B. Sherlock was looking through possible cases and John was only a few hours away from heading home from his job at the hospital. He had spent his day assisting in an emergency liver transplant. _Fun._

Sherlock took a sip of tea and as he set the cup down. His eyes caught John’s chair and he smiled to himself. He wasn’t sure why he tended to smile when he thought of John. Probably because they were friends. His quick and racing thoughts never slow, even when John came to mind. Instead, they rushed even faster and he somehow came to remember that John is two years younger than his sister.

He furrowed his eyebrows, wondering why his mind temporarily fixated on the fact, until he also remembered that John spent a majority of his youth, homeless. Which means that Harry was two when John was a newborn. How the hell did they survive?

Sherlock sat back and thought a moment, no child that young can care for themself and a baby.

It was the first thing that came tumbling out of his mouth when John returned. “John, you were a newborn when your sister was two, yes?”

“Uh, yea.” John said as he hung up his jacket. He was sort of taken aback by being bombarded with a question the moment he walked in the door, but he still expected nothing less from Sherlock.

“And you were born homeless.”

“Yea.” He said slowly, a bit confused.

“How did a two year old take care of herself and a baby?”

John should have known it would have something to do with his past. “Sherlock, we weren’t the only homeless in town. Certainly you would know that homeless people tend to sleep together for protection. We were living with a group of homeless people.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “And how long did that last?”

“Till I was four. Then a lady took us in.”

“Acacia.”

Of course he remembered the one time John gave him a specific detail.

“Yes.” John confirmed, though he wasn’t very happy to do so.

Sherlock tilted his head, getting ever more curious. “How did they afford to feed you?”

“We pooled our daily earnings and one of them would walk with Harry to the shop on the corner. The adults didn’t trust themselves not to buy drugs and alcohol, so she got to pick things out for us.” He paused a moment before adding, “Money earned by panhandling.” John decided to clarify before Sherlock could ask, because he knew that Sherlock would.

“Mm. Was it harder or easier to get money as children?”

John sighed and looked away. He had a chance. A chance to be honest. But he wasn’t sure if he wanted to take it. He stared at the ground a moment, deciding that honesty was best, even though it was hard. “Me and Harry, we didn’t panhandle.”

“So how did you earn money?”

“Illegal methods.”

“Pick-pocketing?”

“No.”

“Mugging.”

John let out a laugh. “She was two and I was a newborn.”

“Theft.”

“No. We didn’t take money. We worked. We had jobs.”

“Ah, child labor?”

“More or less.”

“I assume you weren’t in a factory or being sent down in coal mines. You didn’t happen to be a chimney sweeper, did you?” Sherlock joked lightly, but he was careful since he knew John probably wasn’t entirely comfortable with the conversation.

John chuckled, “It was the mid-seventies, Sherlock. Not the eighteen hundreds.”

“What jobs did children have in the mid-seventies, then?”

“Illegal jobs.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the lack of specificity. “So you did illegal things and were paid for it.” He closed his eyes and thought a moment. He knew John wouldn't outright say it, so he knew he would have to deduce it. “How many hours a day did you work?”

“Morning to midnight. Whenever we were needed.” John said with a shrug.

Sherlock held back a scoff. “Who were your employers?”

“People.”

“What people?”

“Human people.”

“Which ones?”

“The ones that employed us.”

Sherlock huffed. “John, you sarcastic little shit!”

John laughed. “Sorry, Sherlock. But I can’t tell you. I’d have to kill you if I did.” He joked at the end. But part of him wasn't actually joking.

“Oh! So you were in an illegal business!” Sherlock put emphasis on ‘business’, perking up and smiling.

John crossed his arms and nodded. “Do you have anymore questions? I need to get the laundry done.”

Sherlock relented, Though dissatisfied, “Fine, go ahead.” He noted how John became defensive and tried to get out of the conversation. Sherlock knew he was getting somewhere.

John went off to wash clothes while Sherlock hypothesized on what illegal activities two homeless tots could be paid to do. It quickly turned unpleasant. He decided to make himself a cup of tea while he watched John grab laundry from both their bedrooms to clean.

John returned a bit later with a frown. “Dryer’s broken. Looks like I’ll have to take it to a launderette.”

Sherlock grimaced, “No! Do you know what kinds of people use those? How filthy they are?”

“Yes, I do, because I was homeless once and therefore, very fond of them because it was the only way I could have clean clothes for school. I also had a gym membership so I had access to showers.”

Sherlock was quick to shut up. He didn't realize how personal it was for John.

John didn't take any offence to it. He was used to Sherlock being posh and he had grown exceptionally thick skin. “What should we do instead? Hang our clothes to dry in the freezing rainy weather of London?”

Sherlock tilted his head, “We could hang it in the laundry room and let it dry indoors.”

“No, that increases the humidity of the room and encourages fungi and bacteria.” He was happy to throw that fact out because in uni, a particularly annoying professor told them all about it.

Sherlock gave a nod, “And if we left the window open?”

“Better.”

After about half an hour, John finally went down to hang up the clothes.

When he returned, Sherlock gave him a grin. “Remember to leave the window open? We wouldn’t want to encourage fungi and bacteria.” He mocked.

John rolled his eyes, “I’m gonna kick your arse, Sherlock.”

Sherlock scoffed and then paused before confessing, “I was going to say something snarky, but you probably could kick my arse.”

John couldn’t help but to smile. No one ever saw this side of Sherlock, besides himself. He was incredibly honored.

They got takeaway for dinner and Sherlock asked more questions then. “So, what was it like being homeless? How did you deal with the cold?”

“Newspapers. The paper is your best fucking friend when you’re homeless. It’s insulation. When it’s too cold you shove it in your clothes, use it to patch up your shelter, burn it for warmth, put it in a pillowcase and you’ve got a pillow, a pile can be used as a mattress. You can’t have enough.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “Insulation, I never would of thought.”

“That’s because you don’t have to.”

Sherlock looked at John, expecting him to elaborate.

John did, “You’ve never had to wonder how you’ll keep warm or find food or shelter. You’ve never wondered about when your next meal will be, or whether you’ll survive the night. You’ve never thought about the many uses of newspaper because you’ve never had to get creative like that. You haven’t been put in a survival situation.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and he found himself wondering about what other information he’s missed due to his lack of experiences. “I suppose you’re right.”

After spending the night discussing the many survival tips John has learned from homelessness and the army, John eventually retired to bed.

When he arrived in his bedroom, he frowned. All his clothes had been dirty, besides a few scrubs, underwear, and socks. He went down to see if the clothes were dry, they weren’t because of how cold it was. He closed the window till it was only a few centimeters open before heading back upstairs. He didn't want the room getting too cold.

“Sherlock?” He called out as he reentered the sitting room.

“Yes.”

“Do you uh. Do you have, uh ..... maybe some clothes, that I could borrow?” He didn’t like asking for things. He really hated asking for things.

Sherlock found himself grinning but he didn't know why. “I do, but I’m not sure how they’ll fit. Sleepwear, I presume?”

John nodded.

\- - - - -

John eventually had a one of Sherlock’s shirts on, and it was then he realized how different their bodies were. Sherlock was tall and slim, John was shorter and muscular. Though John only needed a shirt to sleep in with his own underwear, said shirt was quite baggy on Sherlock, and it didn’t fit John at all. The sleeves were long enough to swallow his hands and the hem went to his mid-thigh. But his torso had a unique problem of its own, he was more muscular than Sherlock so every muscle on his body was hugged and shown off. It was a mix of adorable and sexy and he felt like a piece of meat. Then again, he also felt strangely confident. He hasn’t worn something like that since his last boyfriend, eight months ago.

He stepped out to make a cup of tea to take to bed and Sherlock found himself staring. The way it was too long was adorable, but the way it was too tight was gorgeous. He couldn’t deny that John looked good. John usually looked good. But this was different, somehow.

Sherlock felt a bit of pride because John was wearing his clothes. He was proud, he was glad, he liked it more than he thought he would. He tried to discreetly watch John making his tea and head off to his room.

Among it all there was only one other thought that lingered in his mind: this man grew up homeless.

A newborn and a two year old, one and three, two and four, three and five, and so on until John was six. Two tots, a girl and her baby brother, doing something illegal to help pay for food.

He didn’t want to think about the things John might’ve done.

He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the fact that John was wearing his clothes. That seemed to be the only thing that would soothe his mind. He still didn’t know why he liked it so much. He almost wanted to search it on the internet, but instead, he settled for the next best thing, his brain.

He dove into his mind palace and began to look through symptoms. Mental symptoms. Emotional symptoms. The closest thing he could find to his own situation was the symptom of pride in marking someone. That symptom, happened to be categorized under signs of love, lust, or obsession. But it seemed to be more related to love or lust.

He furrowed his eyebrows, he was a bit confused since he certainly didn’t lust for John. And he couldn’t’ve fallen in love without noticing. Certainly he would have noticed such a huge shift in his feelings towards someone. Unless the onslaught of emotions were slower or more gradual than he expected. He decided to look more into the symptoms of love. Specifically, the emotional ones.

After half an hour digging through that, he’s discovered that the main symptoms seem to be happiness when around or thinking of said significant other, a deep trust and connection with them, often thinking of them, urges to care for them, and a need to be around them.

This only left Sherlock a bit more confused. These also seemed like symptoms of friendship.

To remedy this, he set out to compare his relationship with John to his other friends.

He’s happy to be around all of them, trusts them, but he doesn’t often think about them or want to care for them like he does John, he also doesn’t have as much of a need to be around them. But does he have a need to be around John?

He certainly prefers to be around John compared to the company of anyone else or being alone.

Sherlock felt quite stupid for not having realized this until John needed to borrow his clothes.

But did he really love John?

He was no expert in love.

But the internet, it could provide some assistance.

His mind went back to the night John drunkenly tried to sleep with him. He almost wished it didn’t happen because he didn’t know if that came out of John’s love or lust. But it came from somewhere. It wasn’t like John was under the influence of something mind-altering, no. Alcohol only removed inhibitions. The things you do and say are still you, just without a regard for consequences. John meant what he said. But was it love or lust?

This confusion is why Sherlock dislikes emotions so much. But it seems he has to deal with them, especially now.


	5. And They Were Both Liars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock consults the internet for things he doesn’t understand, then Lestrade.

Sherlock woke up early again to put the kettle on for John. He usually didn’t have tea when he first woke up, but John did.

He went to the couch and grabbed his laptop, deciding that now was as good a time as any to consult the internet on whether or not he might be in love. He went to Google and found himself a bit embarrassed to be doing this, he hesitantly typed _‘Am I in love?’_ And hit enter.

Many results appeared but he decided to settle on one written by an actual psychologist. He trusted it a bit more than he did Cosmopolitan.

The formatting was a list of symptoms and then an explanation under each. He decided the best way to go about this was comparing each symptom to his own life and feelings towards John.

He found himself getting excited, probably because he was learning a new thing, but it was a strange excitement. The kind that makes you want to squeal. He didn’t like it.

_‘You want to let this person in. Letting people in can be difficult, but this person is different. You feel comfortable enough that you actually want to let them in. There are no more walls to break down, and you’d tell them almost anything if they asked.’_

That easily applied to his feelings towards John. Of course he wants to let John in, John’s his friend and he’s completely trustworthy. He has no reason not to let John in, even though he often doesn’t let his other friends in.

_‘You lose track of time with this person. An hour isn’t an hour with them, it feels like five minutes. You get so wrapped up in spending time with this person that time itself seems to be off. Or at the very least, you find yourself wishing you had more time with this person.’_

Of course he wanted to spend more time with John. John was one of the few people he even enjoyed spending time with. As they say, time flies when you’re having fun. And he always has fun with John, who wouldn’t when they’re with someone they enjoy the company of? He could spend days or weeks just talking with John in the sitting room, or wandering the streets of London. So long as John was there he didn’t really care what they did.

That made Sherlock freeze a moment. He quickly realized how uncharacteristically fond he was of John. He wasn’t sure he’s ever been so fond of someone before. He felt a sinking feeling in his stomach but an excitement in his chest. Could it be possible that love made him anxious?

_‘You’re comfortable making sacrifices for this person. Of course those sacrifices aren’t one-sided and they don’t come before your responsibilities. But you wouldn’t mind waking up a little earlier to say goodbye to them when they go to work.’_

Sherlock gets up earlier to put on the kettle for John.

He glanced at the kettle in pique before turning back to the article.

_‘You find yourself talking about this person often. Whether you mean to or not, you tend to talk about this person. They’re like a brand new and exciting thing that you want to tell everyone about.’_

Sherlock does talk about John. Sometimes. Not that often though. Usually if he’s discussing a case or if someone asks about John. Though, he has managed to turn the subject of a conversation into John just because he likes talking about him.

_‘You talk with this person about the future. Whether it’s where you’re going to live together, what your future kids will look like, or the next time you want to hang out together. You talk with this person about the future because you both want your futures to include each other.’_

Obviously he and John’s futures are intertwined. He almost thought this example was ridiculous, until he realized that the reason he and John didn’t discuss the future was because they didn’t want their lives to change that much.

_‘It feels easy to be around this person. You don’t feel like you have to act a certain way or say or do certain things to be liked or fit in. You feel like you can be your natural self. You don’t have to hide or disguise yourself, you can just be you and they can just be them.’_

John is the only person he feels that way around besides Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade is starting to be more appealing to him. He very rarely masks himself around Lestrade, but sometimes it happens.

_‘Things are better with this person around. Whether it’s something brand new, something you’ve done before, something you’re already passionate about, or something you don’t tend to enjoy, it’s just better with this person around.’_

Cases with John are more exciting, playing the violin for John is more fun than when he’s on his own. Sometimes he’ll even throw in a few notes just to impress him. Even going out to a bar with a bunch of officers from the Yard is appealing because John’s there.

Sherlock’s in love.

He swallowed and closed out his browser, deleted his history, and put his laptop away. He did everything expect delete the memory from his mind. He couldn’t do that even if he wanted to. He decided to have a cup of tea to soothe himself.

He made himself a mug before sitting back down and sighing. Could it be possible that he’s fallen in love without noticing? The idea was becoming more and more logical as he thought about it. He knew there was something different about John when they first met but he never quite realized what it was. Perhaps it was that they were compatible mates?

He closed his eyes a moment, trying to work through his thoughts. He was left with very few doubts on his feelings about John.

He decided to work through his doubts. If he were to accept his feelings then he had to be without uncertainty. He thought about what he’d learned on love, about his feelings for John, his adventures with him, his life with him. He found himself grinning like an idiot. Dammit.

His life with John was amazing and he wouldn’t change it for the world. He could spend eternity sitting around with John, wandering London, going to Angelo’s, going to bars with the Yard, chasing criminals in the night, and coming home to tell Mrs. Hudson about the case while John blogged about it. His life was perfect.

His eyes widened and he felt a rush of fear.

His life was perfect.

Take cases out of the equation and it would be more boring. Take London out of the equation, he didn’t care where they were. Take Angelo’s out and they could survive on a mix of groceries and takeaway. Take out the bars and he wouldn’t mind it. Take away hunting down the criminals and he wouldn’t mind it too much though it would irritate him. Take out Mrs. Hudson and he would greatly miss her but he would live. Take out John’s blog and he wouldn’t mind it too much.

But take away John, and he wouldn’t be satisfied with his life.

Before John he had never really been satisfied. But suddenly, he became satisfied with his life BECAUSE John is in it.

He needs John.

That alone took away all his doubts. He was definitely in love. He wasn’t sure if he should profess his feelings or curl up and panic. He didn’t know what to do. He went up to his room and he found his phone, quickly dialing Lestrade.

“Hello? I just got in the office and I haven’t looked over the case files yet, so I don’t know if I have anything for you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock was about to speak but then he froze a moment. Lestrade knew it was him, but Lestrade never memorized phone numbers. Lestrade saved Sherlock’s number. Sherlock couldn’t believe someone would do that. To have someone expect his calls and texts, so much that they would save his number to their personal cell phone.

“Sherlock, are you there?”

Sherlock snapped out of it. “Oh, yes. Sorry. Uh, this. This isn’t about a case.”

“Oh, then what’s up?” Lestrade asked as he sat down at his desk and started to flick through the new cases that had been received. A few murders, some burglaries, and a missing person.

He quickly assigned the missing person’s case to someone as he waited for Sherlock to say something.

Sherlock wasn’t sure how to say it, so he figured blurting it out would be best. He struggled to make sound come out but when he finally did, he felt much better. “I’m in love with John.”

Lestrade frozen, a grin appearing on his face. “When?”

“I don’t know. It happened right under my nose! I didn’t realize it until today.”

“What made you realize it?”

“Well, I was thinking about my life, and I realized. I. I realized that I would be happy no matter what my situation is, as long as John is by my side I can do anything.” Sherlock felt himself tearing up from the stress of his own realization. His head hurt. Previously he didn’t even think he was capable of falling in love, but here he was. “Greg, I don’t know what to do. I’m terrified I’m going to mess it up, I always mess everything up when it involves emotions. I just don’t understand.”

Lestrade was a bit shocked that Sherlock remembered his name. “O-Oh. Sherlock, it’s going to be alright. I know this probably doesn’t sound helpful, but just be yourself. John obviously likes you just the way you are. I don’t know if he feels the same way that you do, but I’d say you have a chance.”

Sherlock nodded and took a deep breath to calm himself. “Being anything other than myself wouldn’t help the situation, obviously. How do I, what .....” he trailed off a for moment, a bit flustered, “Do I tell him? And, how would I even go about that?”

Lestrade thought a moment. “This may sound a bit childish, but there is one thing that I and many people I know tend to do. Just go to a mutual friend and ask them to find out John’s feelings. You’d be surprised how often people’s crushes fancy them in return. You don’t fall in love with someone just by being friendly with them. I’d say it’s extremely likely that John has similar feelings.”

Sherlock smirked, “And you’ll find out for me, yes?”

Lestrade let out a chuckle, “I’ll ask him about it Sunday over drinks. It’ll only be us this time. Just be prepared for anything. It could be a simple yes or no, but it could also be a bit complicated. He might not even know how he feels.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “I understand the complexity of emotions, Greg. I’m also prepared for rejection. I’ve done nothing about my feelings so far, continuing to do nothing would be easy.”

Lestrade gave a weak smile. He didn’t believe for a second that Sherlock wasn’t capable of the same emotions as everyone else. He knew rejection would hurt him. But he decided to agree, anyways. “Right. Well, I’ve got to go for now. But I’ll call you again after I talk to John, alright.”

“Of course.” Sherlock took a deep breath, “Thank you, Greg.”

Lestrade grinned, “No problem, Sherlock.”

They hung up and Sherlock found himself pressing his phone to his chest. He felt like an overdramatic Shakespearean actor. He felt a mix of anxiety and hope. He didn’t like it.

He found himself heading over to his drawer to find a nicotine patch, he was out. Likely John’s doing. They’d agreed he was going to stop, but it wasn’t very convenient at the moment for Sherlock to be out. He went downstairs and he saw John in the kitchen, dressed in his scrubs and having tea and eggs for breakfast.

John gave him a smile and then furrowed his eyebrows, “Are you alright?”

“Uh, yea. Fine. Just ..... an eventful morning.” He poured himself another cup and downed half of it.

“Out of patches?” John mused and Sherlock glared.

“Irritating me doesn’t help.”

“I know.” John shrugged. “Still fun though.”

Sherlock found himself struggling not to stare, realizing his feelings has made hiding them much harder.

“John, did I ever tell you what day my birthday is?”

John looked up at him, very curious. “No.”

Sherlock didn’t know what he was doing, damn emotions making him do stupid things. “January 6th. I’ll be turning thirty-three.”

John tilted his head. “Why did you never tell me?” He then blinked a few times. “You’re only thirty-two?! You certainly don’t look it, but I didn’t think you were _that_ young! I’m nearly a decade older than you!

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John’s reaction to his age. Still, he found himself strangely flattered. “I never thought it was important.”

“It’s important to me.”

“I don’t see why.”

“Sherlock, you’re my best friend.” John defended.

Sherlock froze, his lips parted slightly in shock. He didn’t know how to respond. He never expected to be someone’s best friend.

John tilted his head, “Are you alright?”

“Yes, of course. I just ..... never expected to be someone’s best friend.”

John looked surprised. He was surprised. “You ..... Sherlock. I’ve considered you to be my best friend since, maybe two or three months after we met.”

Sherlock looked at the ground. “As did I. I just assumed my feelings weren’t requited. So I never said anything.”

John smiled, “Sherlock, never hesitate to express your feelings.”

Sherlock swallowed and gave a weak smile.

If only John knew.

John watched Sherlock’s face go from surprise, to sheepishness, and then shame. He knew something was up. There was something Sherlock wasn’t telling him. He wasn’t blind and Sherlock wasn’t a robot. He only wished Sherlock would tell him. John pretended not to notice because he didn’t want to push Sherlock, “Well, I’m off to work. See you this evening?”

Sherlock smiled, “I’ll see you then.”

They were both liars. One about feelings, one about the past.

They were both liars.

Ashamed, embarrassed, and afraid.

The truth wasn’t pretty, and they were both liars.


	6. Sherlock’s Day Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Upon further inquiry into the mating habits of man, Sherlock realizes that even if John liked him, he has no idea how to even begin courting him. So he consults someone he considers to be an expert at love.
> 
> Also, an interesting new case comes up in Brighton. But it's interesting for all the wrong reasons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The case given to Sherlock is entirely made up by me and has nothing to do with any real life events.
> 
> Also I’m sorry if you live in Brighton cause I’m gonna fuck your shit up.

Sherlock waited five minutes after John left for work before he got over-excited and burst out his front door. He stood by the road and hailed a cab, “St. Bartholomew's Hospital.” The driver nodded and drove off. Sherlock paid the cabbie and stepped out at his destination.

He rushed inside and made his way to the morgue.

“Shit.” He cursed when he saw it was still locked. Molly wasn’t there yet. He waited for about three minutes before he resorted to picking the lock. He made his way in, locked the door behind him, and he sat by the counter as he waited for Molly.

She arrived a few minutes later, bursting in with a sandwich in her mouth, fumbling as her arms were full of stuff. Sherlock decided to wait a moment and let her get settled before revealing that he was there, he didn’t want to startle her and make her drop her stuff. He’s gotten better at being considerate. Or rather, it wasn’t that he was inconsiderate before, it was that he didn’t know how to show it until he realized he was surrounded by a group of people that he was going to spend the rest of his life with.

“Molly, hi.” Was all he said as Molly yelped, jumped, and looked over at him in shock.

“How did you get in here?”

“I picked the lock.”

“Why?”

“It was locked.”

Molly rolled her eyes. “Alright, then. Why are you here?”

“I need help.”

Molly raised an eyebrow, “And what is it that you can’t figure out?” She was just a bit amused, she thought it was funny when the genius couldn’t figure things out on his own and had to ask her for help. Though she wouldn’t tease him for it, it was more of an ego boost for her.

“I-“ He cut himself off a moment. He didn’t know how to say it.

“It’s a boy, isn’t it?”

“What? How the hell could you have known that?”

“You just told me, first of all. Secondly, because the only person I’ve ever seen render you speechless is John.” Molly then gasped. “Have you finally realized you’re in love with him?”

Sherlock was shocked. “And how did you know that?!”

“Again, you just told me. And it’s because, well ..... you’re obvious.” She shrugged. “So, you’ve come here because you don’t know what to do about it?”

Sherlock sighed and nodded, “Yes. I asked Lestrade to find out if he loves me as well.”

“Oh, using the big L word. Why that instead of fancy?”

“Because I realized that I could live without anything, anything at all. Take away my experiments, my patches, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, my work, you could take absolutely any and every thing away from me and I’ll be fine so long as you don’t take John. He’s the only thing I need.”

Molly’s eyes widened, “Wow, you’ve got it bad.” She didn’t think he would ever love someone so deeply. Not because he’s incapable, but because she never thought he would let someone in that deep. “So you want to figure out what to do if he likes you?”

“Yes.”

“Would you want to be in a relationship with him?”

Sherlock shrugged, “I wouldn’t be opposed to it. I. I think I’d like it.”

“Kissing, holding hands, holding each other, you’re ready for all of it?”

“Slowly, perhaps. But yes. That isn’t going to scare me away because I’ll be doing it with John.”

Molly smiled, “Alright then. I’m not gonna tell you to charm him because that only leads to disappointment. It’s terrible advice. The best thing is to be honest. Lestrade’s going to ask if he likes you? Well if he does, come to him a few days later and tell him. Tell him that Lestrade told you, but don’t mention that you asked him to find out for you. Then, tell him what you just told me. That you could live without anything expect him. Then, ask him out. He may not want to rush into a relationship just yet, he might want to go on a few dates first. Don’t be scared of that. By the third date you’re basically a couple, but be sure to verbally establish that with him. Got it?”

Sherlock nodded and then smiled, “Hm. That wasn’t as complicated as I thought it would be.”

“That’s because you tend to overthink things that you don’t understand.”

It was too correct of a point for Sherlock to even be offended.

“Alright. What if he doesn’t like me?”

Molly thought a moment on how to best word this. “Then, it’s gonna be hard. You might want to run away, or convince him to love you. But you can’t. You can go on a holiday, or go take a case by yourself. But you can’t abandon him.John’s smart. You start acting up and he’ll know something’s wrong. I’m not saying you should internalize your feelings, though. Talk to me about it, and cry when you’re alone.”

“Have you ever had depression?”

“Yes.”

“I can tell.”

Sherlock spent another hour with Molly, playing with the dead bodies until his phone rang. He looked down and saw he had a message from Lestrade.

He checked it.

_‘Got a case for you if you’re interested’_

Sherlock grinned and Molly recognized the smile, “You’ve got a case?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Go on then. God knows they need you out there.”

Sherlock left, taking another cab to Scotland Yard and letting Lestrade know he was on his way. He arrived and quickly made his way to Lestrade’s office. He excitedly knocked and heard Lestrade’s voice, “Come in, Sherlock.”

Sherlock entered and closed the door behind himself, he sat down in front of Lestrade’s desk with a grin, waiting for the details.

“This one’s got the coppers down in Brighton confused as all hell. So, there was a small string of murders, same method of killing, same type of victim, same locations. Three Vietnamese girls were murdered in various abandoned warehouses, always a different warehouse, via a single bullet through the head. It was weird for a serial killer because-“

“Because a serial killer wouldn’t be so impersonal with it. Guns are too fast, too easy. There wouldn’t be any fun for the killer. Serial killers are often more personal about it unless their only motive is attention and being famous for killing, but if that were the case then the bodies would be put on display and not hidden in a warehouse.” Sherlock mumbled.

Lestrade nodded, “Exactly, if it weren’t for the fact that it’s the same type of victim I wouldn’t of labeled it a serial killer. It almost seems like a mix of serial murder and executions. Like they didn’t want attention, but don’t care if people know.”

“How long are the bodies left in the warehouses before being found?”

“A few hours. The warehouses are by the docks, docks are full of workers unloading and loading cargo. It’s almost impressive that the girls are successfully snuck in there.”

Sherlock thought a moment, mumbling to himself. “It’s either a current or previous dock worker ..... Brighton doesn’t have a significant Asian population ..... not a hate crime ..... it isn’t personal either ..... completely impersonal serial killer but with a victim type.” Sherlock tilted his head, “This one’ll be fun. I’ll have it solved in under a week.” Sherlock said with a smile.

Lestrade nodded, “Here’s the file, I’ll let Brighton police know you’re coming to assist.”

“I’ll be there Friday.”

Sherlock excitedly headed back to his shared flat. He loved having a new case.

He got back to the flat and he set the files down in the sitting room. He sat down after he grabbed a cup of tea and leftover Chinese food. He was a bit hungry, though it was rare that he got hungry.

He looked through the file, carefully examining the pictures of the bodies, then reading the coroner’s report. No signs of sexual assault, signs of a struggle, and no damage inflicted besides the bullet. Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows, there was no way it was a serial killer. There was no fun, no damage, nothing for the killer to enjoy. Not unless he likes the dead bodies. But with no signs of sexual assault, that likely wasn’t it.

Sherlock huffed and stared at the clues more intently.

A few hours later, John walked in the door. “Hey, Sherlock. New case?” He asked when he saw the file in Sherlock’s hand and the pictures of dead bodies on the table.

“Yes, and this one’s strange. Three Vietnamese girls have been found murdered in warehouses by some docks. Always a different warehouse, never repeats. Killed by a single bullet to the head. Thought it was a serial killer, but it’s too impersonal. No torture, bodily damage, sexual assault. There’s nothing. Just a quick execution over and over. Unless there’s psychological torment before the murder, there’s nothing.”

John raised an eyebrow, “Yea, sounds weird. Seems like he has a type of victim he likes, which is serial killer-y, but it’s so impersonal that I can’t imagine it is. It’s almost like someone wanted to make it look like there’s a serial killer.”

Sherlock nodded and then tilted his head. “Hm. Not a bad possibility. Nice one, John.”

John smiled, “Anytime. So, which coast are we going to?”

Sherlock mumbled his response as his eyes flickered over the evidence. “Brighton.”

John tensed, frozen in place, visibly uncomfortable. But at the same time, he didn’t want to show it. He forced his torso to relax while he clenched his jaw.

Sherlock looked him up and down. “So what’s your issue with Brighton?”

“What are you talking about? I’m fine with Brighton.”

Sherlock actually let out a laugh and raised an eyebrow. “John, you got so stiff you were as still as a marble statue. What’s wrong? You don’t have to come along, I can handle it on my own.”

John shook his head, “No. I can go.” He said as he sat down.

Sherlock sat up straight upon realizing Brighton must be another missing piece of his past.

It was strange. Sherlock always assumed John had a simple cookie-cutter life. When that was disproved he figured John led a simple homeless life on the streets of London. But now Brighton was involved.

“Brighton is another part of your past?”

“One of the better and briefer parts, yes.”

Sherlock gave John a serious look. “You’re certain that you want to go?”

“Yes, Sherlock. I’d love to see how this case plays out.”

“Alright then.”

They didn’t speak of it any more, but boy was Sherlock wondering about what might’ve happened to John in Brighton.

Maybe he traveled there for a brief period of time, or maybe he originated from there? Could it be that John wasn’t from London? No. Not likely. He lived here with a group of homeless adults, he wouldn’t have had the resources or time to travel. Especially not as a kid and though he didn’t know Harry well, he knew that she was a bit protective of him, she wouldn’t’ve let him travel on his own or with her. She would’ve wanted him to stay with the group, groups are how you survive.

Sherlock was satisfied with what he’d figured out and decided that maybe Brighton was more recent, or maybe the entire group had to go there for some reason. He didn’t worry about it too much because he knew that he’d figure it out after their visit to Brighton.

“Wait, so, we’ll be going to Brighton’s docks?”

“Yes. That’s where the crime scenes are so I imagine that’s where we’ll be spending a significant portion of our time. Looking at the crime scene and talking to witnesses, also a bit at the morgue to see the dead bodies and talk to the coroner.”

John nodded and didn’t say anything more.

Sherlock took note of that. It wasn’t Brighton he was connected to, it was the docks. Interesting, but strange.

Sherlock went back to reading the file on the case. Most of the workers at the docks had been cleared due to their shifts causing them to be somewhere else’s at the time of one or more murders, or they were off work during some of the murders and had solid alibis.

Definitely an ex-dock worker.


	7. John In Brighton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is happy to be without familiar faces, until he finds one. It’s bittersweet but leaves Sherlock with a million questions.

The train ride to Brighton left John feeling anxious.

He wasn’t worried about being recognized in Brighton, he was worried about being recognized in the docks. That’s where the familiar faces would be lurking.

Though time corrodes the memory, his time with his friends in Brighton was extremely memorable. But he still had hope that maybe they wouldn’t recognize him since he’s older.

When they got off the train, Sherlock hurried John into a cab and to their hotel. He only gave John enough time to throw their bags on the bed before he was shoved into another cab and taken off to the docks, the place he dreaded to be.

They met with the officers and detective at the scene and were taken to where a body had been found only an hour ago.

From simply walking around it, Sherlock figured out that she was from a wealthy family, she was in university, that she had been taken from a park, and she was addicted to heroin.

John raised an eyebrow and upon further examination, he found small incision points to prove Sherlock’s theory. She’d been shooting up pretty recently too, wouldn’t be surprised if it was still in her system. “Hey, this bruising on her forehead, it’s post-mortem. It developed after she died. I think she was shot point blank. The gun was pressed to her head.”

After looking the girl up, they found that she was indeed from a wealthy family in Vietnam and she was in England to stay with her cousin for a while.

“Geez, this is gonna be a mess. We didn’t find drugs or signs of drug use in the other girls, and the other girls were citizens. This is something new, at least.” The detective inspector remarked.

Sherlock nodded, “Well, I’ve already deduced that the killer is an ex-employee of the docks, you should start by checking everyone who’s been let go in the past six months. It hasn’t been too long since he’s worked here because he still remembers the schedules. He knows where everyone is at all times and that’s how he’s getting the girls in here to kill.”

John then followed Sherlock out to talk with some of the dock workers.

The conversations he struck up tended to go no where. Until he tried a young teenager, he was surprisingly helpful.

“I don’t suppose you could tell me anything about those dead girls?”

The boy shook his head.

“Didn’t see or hear anything, don’t know why it might be happening?”

He shook his head again, but he also said, “Ask Old Brick. He sees everything. He’s over on the far side on his rocking chair.”

John smiled, “Thank you.”

He headed over to the opposite side of the docks to find a very tan old man in a rocking chair, just like the boy said. He was in jeans and a tank top, he looked like he’s spent the better part of his years working and then some. He looked tired.

“Hello? I don’t suppose you’re Old Brick?”

The man smiled up at him, “I sure am, and what can I do for you?” An Australian accent came from the guy’s mouth. John tried not to look horrified, something about the man’s face was familiar. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

“I’m John, I’m assisting the police in their investigation of-“

“Them Vietnam girls, yea?” He sighed, “It’s a real shame. I don’t know much but I can tell you a few things.”

John was all ears.

“Been working on these docks for decades, met every man who’s worked here in the last fifty years. Never met anybody that’ll do something like that. Sneaking girls in just to shoot them. Mm. Shame. But it’s someone who used to work here, they know the schedule too well. Nobody current, they aren’t like that.”

“Who _is_ like that?”

Old Brick frowned, “I’d like to think nobody’s like that. But it’s hard to say. I also noticed that it’s been smelling like ammonia around here since it started.”

John smiled, “Well, thank you Old Brick. Thank you very much.”

Ammonia was a very strong cleaning supply, it can be used to clean up a variety of messes. Could mean the killer’s cleaning up after themself. As a matter of fact, John doesn’t remember seeing much blood spattered. In fact, there was far too little for her to have been shot there, but too much for the killer to have been cleaning up the blood. The girl was dead before she got to the warehouse, and the killer was using ammonia to cover the blood tracks. The warehouses aren’t crime scenes, they’re dump sites.

“No problem, and please, call me Anthony.”

“Anthony Memric?” John asked upon remembering the name, he then froze. He hadn’t meant to make friends, or find old ones.

“Yea, how’d you know?”

Unfortunely, John was honest, “I’m John. John Watson. I don’t know if you remember me ..... we came here together, I was a kid.”

“Johnny Boy!” Anthony exclaimed, rising up and wrapping John in a hug.

John found himself smiling and hugging him back.

“Oh my goodness! I haven’t seen you since you were to my hip! You’ve grown so much!”

John chuckled, “You’ve shrunk a bit.”

Upon hearing the man shout and grab John, Sherlock had rushed over, unsure if the contact was friendly or threatening since he was at a distance.

“How have you been, boy? Ever go to school? Been through university?”

“All that and I served in the military.”

“Well look at you!”

“Served two tours in Afghanistan as a military doctor. Now I practice in London, and I’m partners with Sherlock Holmes.”

“Holmes? I heard of him! Genius detective they say, he’s a wonder. Case is gonna be closed soon with him on it, I’ll bet.”

John was about to say something until a deeper voice from behind him piped in, “I hope so, though I quite enjoy the sea. Sherlock Holmes, pleasure to meet you. You know John?”

Anthony smiled and nodded, “Yes sir, but I hadn’t seen him since he was ..... boy how old were you?”

“Six.”

Anthony’s face changed from a smile to a mix of sadness and regret, “Oh, no. You were much too young. I can’t believe you got wrapped up in all that mess. I’m sorry I couldn’t get you out. But we tried, boy we tried. You made the right choice to move on to London.”

John cringed some, not only at the memory but because Sherlock was learning about the past that John didn’t want to face. “It wasn’t your fault. Harriet and I, we had to. I think old devils were just better than new ones. We knew what to do, how to deal with it. It wasn’t really safer, but it was how we knew to survive. Seems like you’ve lived a good life though.”

Anthony smiled, “Yep. Found the woman of my dreams thirty years ago, got married on the beach, and we had three daughters. One’s a music teacher, one’s a lawyer, and the other’s a vet. Got two grandboys and a granddaughter on the way.”

John found himself beaming, “I knew you’d make it, I always did. It was always going to be you that rose up.”

Anthony shook his head. “It wasn’t easy. Thankfully I’m not the only one. Brendon and Philip are married too, Jamie’s a vet and she works with my daughter. Everyone else. Well, those are my connections. I wasn’t always a saint.”

“You say that like you had a choice. You didn’t. In the end, you were alright. You built a life. That’s what matters.”

“So did you, John. You made a life, jumped to the other side of the law. Hell, you’re a doctor too. How’s Harriet?”

John’s smile weakened, “Sh-She uh. She’s good too. Really, she is. But, she has her own way to coping with the past.”

“Alcohol?”

“Yea.”

“Figures, she was never the type for drugs. Which is a great thing, really. They don’t need to eat away at her too.”

John sniffed awkwardly, feeling a bit overwhelmed. “Yea. But, thank you Anthony for your help, and for everything else.”

“Oh, it was no problem.”

“Really, Anthony. Thank you.”

Anthony understood and gave a nod.

John walked away and Sherlock followed behind. “So you two were homeless together?”

“Briefly.”

“Briefly? He spoke to you as if he’s known you for years.”

“It was a very memorable time together.”

Sherlock huffed and then thought a moment. “So you aren’t from London? Or Brighton?”

“No.”

Sherlock couldn’t believe what he was finally learning about John.

John put on a hard face, pretending the interaction hadn’t happened. But he was genuinely happy to know that most of his friends had turned out alright.

“Was he part of the group of homeless people that you and Harry lived with.”

“No. I only knew Anthony for a few months when I was six.”

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows, it could’ve been that John and Harry had went from group to group, but didn’t some old woman take him and Harry in at some point? The story was becoming more twisted and uncertain when it should’ve been becoming clearer.

John was an enigma that Sherlock wanted to understand. But something told him that no matter what, John would never get predictable. There would always be things about him that Sherlock wouldn’t completely get. Like how he can peel an orange in one long strip, how he can move around the flat without making a sound, how he can mimic bird calls almost immediately after hearing it, or how he can speak a little French. Just enough to get by in a conversation with Sherlock, who was fluent.

Sherlock recommended that John stay at the docks, interviewing people, while Sherlock went on to the coroner to talk about the dead bodies.

John wasn’t too happy to be there, but agreed.

He found himself getting more comfortable at the docks. They were familiar to him. The ocean was calming. Of course it was different from the one he remembers as a boy.

Memories. That’s all his old home was now. Photographs in his mind with golden filters. Beautiful beaches and warm water. He remembered the city too, and the park he occasionally went to. But they were nothing more than photographs. Still pictures in his mind of a view. But it was the beaches he missed the most. His heart ached to know that his old home would only ever be a memory. He’ll never see it again. He can’t go back. But part of him longed to see it again.

He spoke with whoever would talk to him. There were some who were visibly uncomfortable with talking to a cop, likely due to gang affiliations or pre-existing criminal records.

Soon he was out of people who would talk to him, but there also weren’t that many workers there to begin with. He found himself sitting on the docks. Feet almost touching the water. It was cold, it was nothing compared to his home. He closed his eyes and focused. He could feel himself warming up. He could hear the waves, Harry’s laughter, the sounds of tourists. He could taste the salt and feel the breeze. Everything was golden and beautiful. His memories were like polaroids, filtered and fragile. He kept them with a heavy heart. He sometimes didn’t want to remember, but forgetting was his greatest fear. He didn’t want to lose his beach. The warmth, the breeze, the air, the warm water, the waves, and the sounds of happiness. He remembered dogs barking, children laughing, ice cream and smiles. A summer haze to filter over the golden days of his childhood. It was beautiful, it was perfect.

He would rather ache over his memories than forget them. His home was only memory, and a few polaroids that Harry had. It hurt him in a unique way that nothing else could. That bittersweet ache. But hurting was better than forgetting. He opened his eyes in response to a hand on his shoulder, he turned to see Sherlock. “What are you doing, I’ve been calling to you for five minutes.”

John got up and was about to say something, when Sherlock started again. “Why were you crying?” His voice was filled with concern. John felt his cheek and realized it was wet.

“Oh.” Was all he said.

“You’re thinking about where you’re from, aren’t you? You miss it.” Sherlock wasn’t happy about that in the slightest. He didn’t want John getting homesick and leaving him.

John sighed, “It isn’t that I miss it, it’s that I’ll never be able to see it again.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t go back.”

“Why can’t you?”

“Because I worked too hard to get away. If I go back, I could get into all kinds of trouble. And it’s too far away anyways, it just wouldn’t be worth it.”

Sherlock watched as John walked off, ending the conversation.

Sherlock took a different approach. “John, are you okay, really?”

“Yes. I’m alright. Just a bit sad.”

“You know if you want to talk about it, I’m here.”

John stopped a moment and turned to face Sherlock. He stared a moment, which confused Sherlock. It confused him even more when a smile slowly stretched across his face. “I don’t see how you ever doubted that you’re my best friend.”

Then he started walking again.

Sherlock was a bit dumbstruck, but followed.

“I learned something interesting at the morgue. Our latest victim’s family got their money from highly illegal matters. Explains why the girl’s hooked on heroin, the cousin she was staying with is in a mob. He’s being taken into custody for questioning as we speak. They’re going get him to look at the list of ex-workers and see if he recognizes anyone. It’ll obviously be one of them. I suspect it’s a woman as well. It’s too disciplined and well thought out to be a man. I’m also thinking she has some sort of anti-social personality disorder, though I’m no psychiatrist.”

“Oh.” John let out a laugh, “Oh my god! I figured out something that you didn’t!”

“What? What is it?”

John let out a laugh, “Sherlock, you were too focused on the body, you didn’t look at the scene. There were hardly any blood splatters. Sherlock, the warehouses aren’t crime scenes, they may just be dump sites.”

Sherlock’s jaw dropped, he then pulled out his phone to call the Detective Inspector. He silently scolded himself for having missed the detail.

“People have reported that it’s started smelling like ammonia, so she’s probably cleaning up the blood trails, though dead bodies tend not to bleed very much anyways. She must be keeping the bodies for a while post-mortem since she couldn’t stay here to wait for the bleeding to stop before cleaning. That would also explain why no one’s reported hearing a gunshot.”

“John, you’re a genius! I could kiss you right now!” Sherlock said excitedly as he dialed the inspector.

John was a bit dumbstruck and then gave a soft thanks. He felt his cheeks flush a bit, very grateful that Sherlock wasn’t looking.

After reviewing the crime scene photos, it was determined that the warehouses were definitely dump sites.

“So why here? It’s sort of secluded but it doesn’t remain that way for long. The killer obviously wants the bodies to be found, but needs time to place them and clean up.” Sherlock mumbled before speaking into the phone to the inspector, “It isn’t about the girls, it’s about the docks. Doesn’t seem to be targeting any specific person, it’s about the docks in general. We need to figure out who in the last six months was fired while in a stressful financial or emotional situation. We also need to figure out how long the girls might’ve been missing before they were killed. John and I can ask around the docks, I trust you can talk to the friends and family of the victims?”

John bit his lip and turned back to the docks. There were plenty of new people, must have been a recent shift change.

When he turned back to Sherlock he was handed a written list of five names.

“Ten people have been fired in the last six months. We’ll split it in half. See what you can find out about each person and spare no detail. Look for someone in a situation that would be significantly worsened if you were fired from your job.”

John nodded and began talking to the new workers. Of his five names, two stood out. Marcus Wright and Thambia Garcia. Marcus’s mother died a week before he was fired, and Thambia was diagnosed with mesothelioma right before getting fired.

“Say, how old are these warehouses?” John asked the man he was interviewing.

“Oh, hard to say. Most of them are around fifty years or more. Nothin new’s been built in the last twenty years.” He responded with a shrug.

John thanked him and then rushed to find Sherlock.

He grinned at the man when they met up. “Any luck with your list?”

“No. They were all perfectly normal, and three of them don’t even live here anymore. How about you?”

“I have our killer. Thambia Garcia, diagnosed with mesothelioma a little while before being fired. She hasn’t any family in Brighton and doesn’t have many friends. They said she was very introverted. And, I found out that most of these warehouses are at least fifty years old.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Of course, the warehouses are probably lined with asbestos. She gets cancer from the docks and then gets fired. With no job, piling medical bills, and a hatred for the docks it was only a matter of time before she snapped. Now she’s killing women and leaving them in the places that are killing her.”

Sherlock’s phone rang. “Hello, inspector?” He put it on speaker phone so John could listen.

“Hey, so we talked to friends and family of the victims. Our first one, Kelly, she was taken outside a sorority party, Lin was taken while she was jogging, and Marisa was taken while she was out to buy more heroin.”

“One was drunk, another was likely listening to music, and another was desperate for a fix. I don’t think it was intentional that they’re Vietnamese. They were probably taken by chance.” John pointed out.

“That’s what we’re thinking. Definitely ruling out hate crime. The girls had also been missing for a few days before their bodies turned up. Kelly was gone five days, Lin was gone for three, and Marisa was gone one.”

“She’s speeding up.” Sherlock commented.

“She?” The inspector questioned.

“We believe the killer to be Thambia Garcia, she was diagnosed with mesothelioma from asbestos in the warehouses, then she got fired.” Sherlock summarized.

There was a pause and then a huff on the other line. “Thambia was evicted from her apartment two months ago. We don’t have an address for her. No family in the area and she hasn’t contacted anyone in a while.”

Sherlock nodded. “Anything else?”

“Yea, a full coroner’s report just came in. The girls’ stomachs were near empty. They hadn’t been fed since they were taken.”

“So she takes these girls, doesn’t feed them, shoots them at point blank range after a couple days, then leaves them in the docks and cleans up a bit. This makes no sense, we have to be missing something. Something’s happening in those days that isn’t physical. How can you even keep someone captive for a few days without tying them up? There’s no ligature marks and hardly a sign of a struggle. Look into any other women reported missing, rule out anyone leading a high profile life, she isn’t going to take someone that will be missed. And don’t rule out someone just because they aren’t Vietnamese, nationality isn’t important to her, that was just coincident.” Sherlock instructed as he and John walked back to the road to catch a cab. It was getting late and cold.

They made it back to their hotel and John laid down. He was a bit tired from walking around all day. He went straight from his shift at the hospital, to walking around the docks of Brighton. Sherlock went over to a table on the far side of the room and he pulled out a menu. “Room service?”

“Bit expensive, don’t you think?”

“Yes, but they’re paying us £1,500 for our troubles. We can spent some money.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Do we usually get paid so much for cases?”

“People offer thousands for our services, I just usually don’t mention it because it isn’t very interesting.”

John blinked in surprise. That explained a lot. But that also means that he and Sherlock hadn’t been paying correct taxes for years.

Oops.

John quickly decided on ordering baked salmon and tiramisu.

“Tiramisu? But you don’t really like sweets.” Sherlock pointed out.

“Tiramisu is my one and only weakness. I’d kill a man for tiramisu.”

Sherlock nearly snorted and he decided on pasta.

Their food arrived within the hour and John dug in. Because of their trip, John hadn’t had time to eat anything after breakfast. He tore his salmon apart and then dug into his tiramisu. He didn’t even like coffee all that much, but tiramisu somehow made it delicious.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow when John held a forkful of the desert to him. “Try some.” John prompted.

“Uh, no thank you.”

“Just try it. You might like it.”

Sherlock saw the sparkling excitement in John’s eyes and couldn’t say no. “Alright. One bite.” He said as he tasted the forkful of tiramisu.

“This is good.”

John smiled. “I knew you’d like it.”

“How?”

“Because your a person. Everyone loves tiramisu.”

“What about people who don’t like it?”

“The weak die.”

Sherlock busted out laughing. “Well then it’s a good thing I like it.”

John smiled and he found himself floating from the attention. He wasn’t sure why but he considered the moments he’s able to make Sherlock laugh to be special. In the beginning, he showed no sense of humor, but as time’s gone on, it’s become easier and easier to wipe the stoic look off of Sherlock and replace it with a smile. John would never admit how happy Sherlock made him. He wanted to say they were just good friends, but John wasn’t that oblivious. He’s fancied the detective for months now, but Sherlock’s married to his work, so there’s little hope that it would ever work out.

After dinner, Sherlock and John laid in their respective beds.

Sherlock fell asleep after a few hours but John stayed awake. He couldn’t shake the fact that he saw Anthony today. It wasn’t upsetting, it was amazing. He was so happy to see him after all these years. He was also happy to know that their other friends were living their own lives. He ended up spending ten minutes writing and rewriting a text to Harry, explaining what had happened that day. He knew she would like to hear it.

He finally hit send at one in the morning. He decided to get some sleep. Docks start early and so shall they if they’re going to solve this case.


	8. Two Fools

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s their second day in Brighton and they’re on the killers heels.
> 
> They take off on a chase that leads them to an unexpected ending, and John has an interesting conversation with Anthony about his love life.

John woke up at six. Maybe it was because he had been to the docks that he reverted to his old sleep habits, or maybe he only slept five hours from a mix of excitement and worry. He frowned and slept another three hours before deciding it was time to get up. That night was one of the rare ones where Sherlock has gotten a good night’s sleep. He got ten hours before waking up and looking at the clock with an alarmed expression.

John chuckled at him. “Here, I got you some coffee. You look like you need it.” He sat the coffee on the table by Sherlock’s bed, along with a plate of breakfast.

Sherlock mumbled a thanks and he sleepily ate.

John found himself smiling at how adorable Sherlock was being. Stupid crush.

Once Sherlock got dressed, they were off again to the docks. They arrived just as another body was found.

“The killings are getting more and more frequent. There’s some sort of pressure motivating our killer to hurry. She might not have that long left to live.” Sherlock mumbled to John as they hurried to the shouts of workers, calling out that there was a dead body. John and Sherlock rushed to the corpse and began to inspect it, careful not to leave behind any of their own DNA. Cops showed up moments later and blocked off the area, taking pictures and eventually collecting the body while they spoke to witnesses.

While there, John caught a whiff of ammonia. Curious.

John then looked around. “Hey Sherlock?”

“Yes.”

“How many abandoned buildings do you think are around here?”

“Just two or three, maybe. Why?”

“Because if I were a killer without a home or a car, I would be left transporting the bodies by hand. And if I had a specific dump site, I wouldn’t want to have the carry the bodies too far to get to it.”

Sherlock looked around, mostly across the street. He glanced around wildly before pointing to an abandoned hotel. “That one.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s the only one with a basement.”

Sherlock and John took off in a sprint across the street, John picked the lock and got them inside. Of course some cops followed. They rushed downstairs, but still remained quiet, not wanting to blow their stealth. They heard a girl crying. They made it to the basement and John pressed his ear to the door.

“We killed her, oh my god, I can’t believe we did that.” One girl sobbed.

“It’s okay, she made us do it. They can’t blame us f-“ A second girl was interrupted.

“Oh shut up! Look at miss prom queen trying to play righteous. You’re a murderer. But don’t be ashamed, we all are. You just have to learn to let it out.” A third voice said, an older woman. Likely Thambia.

Sherlock and John busted in with the police officers. They didn’t see what they expected. There were two teenage girls in a glass cell, a dead body with them, and Thambia standing by the door.

“I didn’t kill the girls, they did. I only gave them the means to do it.” Thambia said with a grin.

The first girl continued to cry while the other held her and stared at the body. Police arrested Thambia while breaking open the door of the cell for the girls to get out.

“So. Who are you and why were you here?” Sherlock asked.

The girl’s spilled everything. They went to school with the first victim and were all in gymnastics together. They were all kidnapped after the sorority party and woke up in the glass. Thambia said that one of them would die and two of them would live, but they had to choose which one. Apparently after a few days, the victim volunteered. But instead of being killed, a gun was put in the cell. They tried shooting the glass but it didn’t break. In the end, they had to shoot their friend or they would all die of dehydration. Then a new girl was brought in and they were given the same instructions. And again, it happened.

John felt bad for the girls, forced to kill their friend and strangers. The police were left to deal with the mess and they headed back to the docks to regroup. Them and a few officers were scattered around until one of them needed a witness statement from Sherlock.

Then, John felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see Anthony.

“He doesn’t know, does he?”

John shook his head. “No. How would I even begin to tell him what happened, what I’ve done, what I HAD to do? How do you tell someone that?”

Anthony sighed, “I didn’t know either, until I met my wife. Lydia was the most precious thing I’d ever met. I felt like I didn’t deserve her. I’m a criminal, John. I still was when I met her. So I started small. I told her about my childhood in Australia, just a little at a time. Bite-sized pieces. Of course I said some things that shocked her, but I also said and proved with my actions, that I wasn’t the same person. I left the mob, I moved in with her. After a few months of that, I told her the hard truth. My time on the wrong side of the law. It shocked her. She couldn’t look at me. She didn’t know what to say. I thought I lost her. So I kept talking. I told her about why I left, that it was because of her, that she gave me a reason to do better and be better, but that I understood if she didn’t want to be with me anymore.”

John looked up, amazed by how honest he was with Lydia. The Anthony he grew up around was a liar and aggressive to those who threatened him or his friends. But this man, he was kind and gentle, though he could probably still split someone’s head open if he wanted to. “What did she do?”

Anthony smiled sadly. “She said it was hard for her to process, she had questions, but she didn’t blow up or pull away. She wanted to have a conversation. I think that’s the best reaction I could’ve hoped for. So we talked. I answered everything and I was honest. In the end, she decided that since it truly was the past and I’d moved on from that part of my life, she accepted me. Told me it was alright, that she was still my girl and I was still her boy. I was lucky.”

John was amazed. “And you mentioned how you got here?”

“Yes, I told her all that. She also told me that I need to get my papers because she wasn’t going to harbor an illegal. So I married her. Now I’m legal.”

John let out a laugh, “What a wonderful way to become a citizen.” He grinned.

“Yes, wonderful indeed. Lydia changed my life. Like how Sherlock changed yours.”

“What? No. We, we aren’t. We aren’t together.”

Anthony raised an eyebrow. “But you want to be, yes?”

“How could you tell?”

“Because you’re obvious. And you just told me.”

John sighed, but smiled. “So what do I do?”

“You tell him.”

“Sherlock’s married to his work. Nothing will happen.”

Anthony laughed so hard he snorted. “Boy, when you get as old as me you stop listening to what people say and you start watching what they do. I can tell when two people like each other.”

“You think Sherlock fancies me?” John asked incredulously.

Anthony nodded as if it were obvious. “He stares at you the way that I stare at Lydia. As if you’re the only thing that matters, and with a deep love.”

John actually blushed at the comment, Anthony let out a laugh. “John, life is too short to go without taking risks. One day, when you’re looking back on your life, there will be some things you regret. But don’t let not going after someone you love be one of those things.”

“I know. I should take the chance.” He found himself staring over at a distracted Sherlock. “I just don’t know how.”

“You’ll find your way.”

John gave an uncertain nod. He knew what he should do. It was what he wanted to do, but it was difficult. “How do I even begin to tell him?”

“Try what I did. Bite-sized pieces. Then, when he knows the whole story, hit him with the hard truths.”

John took a deep breath and nodded. “Alright. I’ll try.”

Soon enough, Sherlock returned from giving his statement, and he and John were cleared to go.

“Well, I suppose we’d best be off.” John said before tilting his head and asking, “Do you have a phone, Anthony?”

“I sure do.”

Anthony and John exchanged numbers. They didn’t want to lose each other again.

John and Sherlock then hailed a cab and went back to their hotel.

Was he really going to tell Sherlock? Everything? Bite-sized pieces made it seem easier to get through, but he wasn’t sure how to explain what he’d done. Maybe he’d start with a few stories from when he was a child, back at his old home. Then he could skip to when he met Anthony, then his time in Brighton, and on to London. He wasn’t sure which would be worse, explaining his crimes in London or what he did before Brighton. Somehow London seemed easier, it wasn’t as bad to him, which was sick considering what he had done. The lives lost and ruined because of him. But before Brighton was so hard to confess, he’s never told anyone. But Sherlock deserved to know the truth.

“John? Are you alright?”

John’s mouth froze. There were quite a few things he wanted to say. His tongue couldn’t decide what to articulate first. So he blurted out the thing he wanted to say the most. “Sherlock, would you mind if I told you some stories from when I was a kid?”

Sherlock straightened up. John was ready to be open with him and he was nothing less than honored. “I would love that.”

“Mind waiting until the train ride home?”

“Of course.”

John wanted some time to figure out which stories he would tell first. He decided going chronologically and leaving out the bigger details would work best. That way the hard truths could be dealt with later, when he was ready to confess what really happened. “Thank you Sherlock.”

“No, thank you John.”

“For what?”

“Limping into my life.” He joked.

John chuckled, but truthfully, that was the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to him and it wasn’t even intentionally romantic.

So the two fools went to their hotel to pack up.

Fools for dancing around the fact that they love each other.

Fools for not confessing.

Fools for waiting.

But the heart is afraid and the brain is anxious.

Good thing John’s going to meet Lestrade for drinks tomorrow afternoon, or the fools would be hopeless.


	9. Summer of ‘75

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John spends the train ride from Brighton to London telling Sherlock about his childhood. He’s completely honest, but there are things he just can’t say yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I see John as being in his early forties. His canon birthday is July 7th, so I put his birth year in the mid-70s.

John and Sherlock sat facing each other on the train.

Sherlock stared expectantly, but he wasn’t impatient.

John was anxious, he felt sick. He felt like this was a mistake.

“I don’t know who my parents are. They might’ve died or abandoned us shortly after I was born. I really can’t remember. But Harry’s told me the story so many times, so that we’ll always remember how it goes. Harry said a homeless woman discovered us. She told the woman that our parents aren’t around anymore, and we don’t have a place to live or a family. She brought us to meet with her group. There were five of them, living pretty well for homeless people. Had blankets, a few changes of clothes, basic hygiene products, and were stationed near a launderette. They all panhandled.”

John paused a moment, almost feeling the need to defend the people he stayed with. “The thing about homeless people is that a lot of them have mental illnesses. Either they always had it or they developed it while they were homeless. You get to a point where you either can’t or don’t want to rejoin society. You’re fine with where you are, or maybe you can’t handle anything else. A lot of people assume the homeless are lazy or don’t try hard enough, but a lot of the time they just can’t.”

Sherlock nodded. Having his network of homeless, he understood perfectly that many of them can no longer function in society like they used to, and wouldn’t be able to handle a regular job.

The train started up and slowly began, getting faster and faster until it was at a quick pace towards London.

John continued, “They took us in. Fed us, clothed us, taught us how to survive on the streets. There was a large mob presence where we lived. City was practically owned and there were so many cops under their payroll that nobody could step up to them. We lived near one of their regular meetup spots. One day, most of the adults had gone, and one of the members saw Harry and me. I think they felt bad for us, being young children, so they offered Harry a job of sorts. She was to watch out for police, and if she saw an officer, she was suppose to go to the telephone booth and dial them. They gave her a slip of paper with their number, she still has it. She was almost three at the time, so she understood basic instructions and knew how to use a phone. Not many police hung out in that area anyways, so it wasn’t a real job. I think one of them just felt bad and wanted to help out.”

This is when the guilt started sinking in. He didn’t exactly feel bad for helping out criminals, but it was the other stuff he would eventually have to confess to that put a sinking feeling in his stomach. “It wasn’t much, but it was simple and she was capable. Being homeless didn’t give her time to be immature. She took it seriously. So, that was our life. She got five dollars a week for helping out. It wasn’t much, not until she was actually needed.”

John briefly smiled, as if he was proud of his sister, but it then faded as he continued to tell his story.

“Some new laws came into place a few years later, it got out that there were police helping the mob, public outcry, all that stuff. Lead to a total reformation of the police force. Suddenly, criminals were going to jail by the dozen. Being a lawyer or judge became a popular occupation as the number of cases doubled, tripled, and quadrupled in what felt like just a few weeks. The amount of criminals and homeless on the streets began disappearing. But it wasn’t that the homeless were all being arrested, things like rehab were also being taken more seriously, so they went out and tried to better themselves. We even lost a few from our group.”

John had been staring in a corner this entire time. He nervously looked over at Sherlock and found the man sitting up but leaning forward slightly, he was interested in what John was saying. He was patient, understanding, John could tell he wasn’t being judged.

“The mob started getting worried. All of a sudden, their money didn’t matter like it used to, not to the cops anyways. They couldn’t buy their way out of arrests. They were being treated like regular criminals. It was no longer their city, and they didn’t like that. So they went underground after a few years, and Harry started earning ten dollars a week. It slowly became real. She was also trying to teach me to talk. I was three by then and didn’t know many words because I didn’t have a normal household where I heard language everyday. I was behind and the adults knew it. So they told Harry to talk to me everyday, while they worked. She talked about everything. About where the adults went, who they were, about her job, about what a cop was, about criminals, she would tell me about everything she saw. Every bird, tree, building, person. She became a real chatterbox.” He joked with a small smile, “But she did it to try to get me caught up.”

John smiled at the thought. Of course, he had no memory of things at this age, but he had pictures and stories from Harry, that she had been told by the adults. One of them had even kept a journal about them as a sort of memory album. Harry still had it.

“Soon I was speaking in short sentences. I was recognizing colors and I could tell you what the buildings on our street were.” He paused a moment, “Heh, sorry. I’m getting a bit off topic. I know my development isn’t as interesting as crime.”

“Oh no, I find it to be very interesting. I think everything about you is interesting.”

John’s eyes widened some, and though he couldn’t see his reflection, he figured he was probably blushing a bit.

He was.

“Well. I was also jumping, but I couldn’t balance on one foot yet.” He decided to include the fact since Sherlock thought it was interesting.

“While they were underground, they were making plans. Plans on how to go back to the old days, smuggling drugs and weapons without getting caught, selling on the streets more openly, throwing their huge parties where it didn’t matter who showed up. Their plan, I believe, had something to do with increasing violence to intimidate the police into backing off a bit. I think it sort of worked, but they also upped Harry’s pay to fifteen dollars a week since police presence had increased.”

Sherlock found himself losing his sense of time and place. All there was, was him and John. He was becoming quite involved in John’s story, wanting to hear more about Harry, the mob, and John’s childhood development.

“By then group was me, Harry, and three other adults. The woman who found us, an older woman, and a young man who was kicked out of his parents house for ..... for being gay.” John paused a moment when he said that. He hated it. “Uhm. So, uh.” He cleared his throat, “The, uhm.” He needed a second to collect his thoughts. He didn’t know where to go from there.

“I uh. I was four when I joined Harry’s payroll. We watched for cops daily. But that’s when they were raided. Four policemen were there so she called them up and told them cops where there. Then even more arrived, cop cars, big vans, even a few ambulances. She was trying to describe the scene until the police busted in. They told her to hang up. She did. And we watched everyone get arrested. She said the only thing that me and her were worried about was getting paid. We didn’t care that the people who helped protect us were going to jail. We were just wondering who would replace them.”

John wanted to feel bad for his lack of remorse as a child, but he couldn’t. He really did want to feel bad, but he couldn’t make himself. He was indifferent to the people who helped them.

“Next, Acacia came along. She was the mother of one of our employers. He asked her to take us in since he felt bad for us. We lived with Acacia in her home and it was a hard adjustment. Air conditioning froze us, a warm bed was too soft, but home-cooked meals were a blessing. We ate anything she put in front of us. I guess we were starving and dehydrated when we were homeless, because one meal and half a glass of water was all we would eat at first. We slowly got better and healthier. It’s hard to believe there was a time in my life where my ribs were out and my joints showed through stretched skin.”

John cringed some as he described how he used to look. Now that he was a doctor, he attributed his survival to nothing more than sheer luck and the fact that he didn’t have to do any labor.

Sherlock was a bit shocked but also saddened to think that the wonderful man before him had once lived like this. He deserved better.

“Because we didn’t have birth certificates, we couldn’t be enrolled in school. So Acacia took it upon herself to teach us. Taught us how to read, write, basic math, and basic science. When I was four I could do multiplication and I could tell you how and why the planets rotated around the sun. I could explain gravity and where rain came from.”

“You were a little genius.” Sherlock commented.

John let out a laugh. “Oh, I’m nothing compared to you.” He said without even thinking about it. He hasn’t meant to put himself down. He really meant to complement Sherlock.

Sherlock was affronted. “John, you aren’t like normal people. You’re much smarter than them. You can keep up with me, and sometimes, I find you a step or two ahead. If you’re going to compare yourself to me, do it accurately.”

John smiled, somewhat embarrassed. “Thank you Sherlock.” He found himself comfortable with where he stopped. He didn’t want to continue. “I, uhm. I think I’m done for now. If that’s alright with you.”

“Of course, you only need to share as much as you want to.”

“Any questions?” He offered.

Sherlock jumped at the opportunity. “Where did you live?”

“I can’t tell you that, not yet.”

“You eventually did go to grammar school, so how did you do that without a birth certificate?”

“I haven’t gotten to that part yet.”

Sherlock tried one last time after taking a moment to think of a question that John might actually answer. “When did Harriet start calling herself Harry?”

John shrugged. “It was a nickname that the group gave her for protection. It’s safer to be a homeless boy than a homeless girl. So if everyone thought she was a boy, she was safer that way. We never let her hair get too close to her shoulders and we dressed her in neutral clothing. Of course, at the time me and Harry didn’t understand, wasn’t until a few years later that we got it.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, he hadn’t expected that. But it was really smart. “Hm. Clever. And Anthony wasn’t yet part of your group?”

“No. He comes after Acacia.”

“You become homeless again?”

“Sssort of.” He drug out his ‘s’, unsure of his answer. “We didn’t, _become_ , homeless. Homelessness didn’t happen to us, we chose it. It’s complicated. I’ll explain later.”

The train stopped. It had been over an hour. An entire hour and a half had slipped away under their noses. Perhaps time does fly when you’re having fun with someone you love.

They got off and took a cab home.

When they arrived they were greeted by Mrs. Hudson, who wanted all the details of the case. They explained their adventures and left out the part about John having known Anthony. John only wanted his secret to be shared with Sherlock.

They went up to their flat and ate. John found that he was already starting to get sluggish and it was only sunset.

“I think I’m off to bed. Goodnight, Sherlock.” He said as he headed off to his room.

“Goodnight, John.” Sherlock responded, watching his friend walking off.

He looked down at his lap and bit his lip, he’d learned so much about John today. And tomorrow, tomorrow was the day that he finds out whether or not John fancies him.

Sherlock didn’t go to bed until later in the night. He was far too anxious and excited to sleep.


	10. Drink The Day Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John spends his Sunday afternoon at the bar with Lestrade.
> 
> Lestrade holds up his promise to Sherlock.
> 
> Sherlock realizes there’s something he’s never told John.

Sherlock’s heart pounded as John walked out of the door to meet Lestrade at a bar.

Today was the day, the moment of truth was upon him.

It gave him a terrible rush of anxiety and excitement.

He ended up calling Lestrade just to make sure their plan was still on. “Hello?”

“Sherlock, hey. I’m almost at the bar. Don’t worry, the plan is still good. I’m gonna get him a little tipsy, bring up the subject of love and relationships, then I’m gonna ask him if he fancies you.”

Sherlock sighed, “Alright. I-I know. I’m just feeling some of the worst anxiety of my life and John won’t let me buy more patches.”

Lestrade chuckled, “I think that’s a good thing. I need to stop too.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, knowing Lestrade was right. “It would probably be beneficial to your health, yes. But I need them now.”

“No you don’t. Try to occupy yourself, read a book, research a topic you don’t know much about, watch TV, go see Molly, have tea with your landlady.”

Sherlock groaned, “Boring.”

“You’ll figure something out. I’ll have your answer before sunset, alright?”

“Fine. Thank you.”

“It’s no problem, Sherlock.”

They both hung up and Sherlock found himself wracking his brain for a potentially useful topic that he didn’t have a lot of information on.

He settled on memorizing the different paw prints of various animals.

Meanwhile, John was just entering the bar with Lestrade.

They were already joking and laughing about their school days.

They ordered their drinks and started talking about their favorite and least favorite subjects in school, then went on to discuss the kinds of people they were friends with.

“I was a bit of a dork. I mostly hung out around the band geeks, comic book nerds, and theatre kids.” Lestrade confesses, “Oddly enough I wasn’t interested in any of those things.”

John chuckled, “I was friends with what most people call, the wrong crowd.”

“Really, you?”

“Well, I spent most of my life homeless, so we connected I suppose.”

“You were homeless?”

John nearly paled when he realized he let the detail slip, but he decided to be honest. “Yea. Me and my sister never knew our parents. They might of died or abandoned us shortly after I was born. I was an infant and Harry was two when we were taken in by a group of homeless people on the streets. I didn’t live anywhere permanent until, ah, well I was maybe twelve or thirteen.”

Lestrade’s jaw dropped and he blinked a few times. “I had no idea.”

“Well, I never told anyone. I don’t really like talking about it.” He said that last part sort of awkwardly. He wanted to talk about it, but only with Sherlock.

Lestrade nodded understandingly. “It’s fine, I’m just surprised.”

They drank the next hour away, laughing about grammar school memories. Lestrade had plenty of stories about how he sassed teachers, told everyone Santa wasn’t real, and times when he would get in trouble for saying things like “stupid” because some kids were taught that “stupid” is a bad word and would try to get him in trouble. He hated that.

“Parents shouldn’t teach their kids things like that, stupid isn’t a bad word. I wasn’t even calling everyone stupid, I said the dinosaur in my picture book looked stupid because it’s head was shaped weird!” He was still upset by it.

“That’s so annoying. You should’ve punched the kid in the face.” He joked and he laughed away.

“I would’ve if I could’ve, but my mum would’ve beat my arse if I started a fight. Strangely, she did say I was allowed to end one.”

\- - - - -

Sherlock spent his time trying to memorize the differences in various animal footprints. So far he could tell the difference between most types of deer and antelope. He was on to bigger animals like elephants, hippos, and rhinos, which he found easier.

He thought it was interesting to store all the animal footprints, but he knew he would delete most of it later since things like platypus footprints were never going to matter.

At the very least, if the situation came up where platypus footprints were relevant, he would be able to tell they were from a semi-aquatic animal.

Sherlock was about halfway through his cataloguing when he got bored again.

So he decided now would be a fun time to go inside his mind palace and see what footprints he should delete and which ones might matter.

\- - - - -

John ended up tipsy pretty fast. This is because he ended up drinking more than Lestrade, since Lestrade was doing most of the talking.

Lestrade eventually noticed that his opportunity was arriving so he started to shift the conversation around. “Really, that’s enough about me. How’ve you been? Sherlock told me all about the case yesterday.”

“Oh, yea. It was really great. I liked being by the water.”

“Man, we never get to talk like this. Just us and no other friends around. So really mate, how are you?”

John wrestled around with what he wanted to say. “I’m uh. I’m nervous.”

“Nervous? About what?”

“Well, I just started telling Sherlock about how I was homeless. He had no idea. He’s been great about it though, hadn’t judged me and is being really patient and attentive. I guess I’m just worried about coming clean about who I am. Sherlock had assumed it was me, my sister, a mom and a dad, all living a cookie-cutter life.”

Lestrade gave a sad smile and nodded, trying to show his sympathy. “As scarily accurate as he can be, Sherlock can be wrong too.”

“I know. But he’s such a genius that I figured he would have suspected something.”

“You haven’t given him easy reason to suspect you. He trusts you, completely. I think you’re the only person he trusts like that.”l

John found himself grinning at that. “You really think so?”

“One hundred percent. You’re the most important person in the world to him.”

John stopped a moment and thought. It reminded him of what Anthony said.

“My friend, uh. He told me that Sherlock looks at me the same way he looked at his wife. With deep love. Do you believe that?”

Lestrade didn’t hesitate to say, “Completely.” Might as well help set his friends up since they were becoming increasingly obvious.

“Why?”

“Because that is how he looks at you.” Lestrade then paused a moment, considering John’s feelings. “Are you okay with that? Are you even interested in him like that?”

“Of course I am! Tall, dark, handsome, genius, gorgeous, exciting. He’s the complete package and more.”

Lestrade grinned, mission accomplished. “So you fancy Sherlock?”

John scoffed, his drunkenness takin him further than he would have admitted. “Greg, I would go as far to say that I love Sherlock.”

Lestrade’s job just got a lot easier.

“Are you going to tell him?”

“I don’t know. Part of me wants to believe he loves me. But another part doesn’t want to mess up what I do have. And what I have is Sherlock as a friend, and that should be good enough. But it isn’t. I want more, my heart aches for more.”

Lestrade had to stifle a laugh because of how dramatic John was when he was tipsy.

“You gotta tell him sometime or another”.

“Do you think that’ll work? Just telling him?”

“Sherlock probably doesn’t know what to do about his feelings. But if he knew how you felt, he might try to date you.” Lestrade suggested as if he didn’t already know Sherlock’s feelings and plan.

John found himself grinning at the idea. “You really think I have a chance?”

“John, I would say that it’s definite that Sherlock loves you and is desperately trying to decipher your feelings towards him.”

“How do you think he’ll respond?”

“He’ll probably tell you about his feelings and suggest you two start dating or something.”

John nodded and laughed softly. “I can’t believe I have a chance.”

“I can’t believe you two have taken this long to realize it. Just a few months into your partnering with Sherlock I could tell that you two were very different from when you first met. You two bring out the best in each other. You always acted like a married couple. Didn’t take me long to realize that Sherlock was looking at you in a way that he’s never looked at anyone before. Little while later, you were looking at him the same way. But boy did you two take a while to realize your feelings for each other. It was killing me to have to sit on the sidelines while you two did nothing.”

John busted out laughing at this. “Has, has anyone else noticed?”

“Of course! Nearly the whole Yard knows it, John!” He was in a state of disbelief at how oblivious they were. “But we don’t say anything, we just sit back and watch you two stumble around your feelings.”

John grinned, feeling a bit dumb for never noticing. “Were we really that obvious?”

Lestrade nodded.

“And we NEVER noticed each other’s feelings! Oh god, we’re idiots.”

“Great minds think alike, but fools seldom differ. You two were made for each other.”

“We must be.” John said it as if he had just realized it.

Lestrade smiled, “It’s getting late, get a cab and work up some nerve, alright?” He spoke in a bit of a teasing tone at the end.

John laughed and paid his tab. “Right, I’ll see you later Greg.”

“Good luck, John.”

“Yea, yea. I fuckin need it.”

\- - - - -

Sherlock looked down at his phone when it rang, Lestrade.

He quickly picked it up and answered before his nerves could make him hesitate. “Hello?”

“Hey, Sherlock.”

“What did he say?”

Lestrade chuckled, “I asked him if he fancied you, and he said he’d go as far as to say he loves you.”

Sherlock jumped up from where he sat on the sofa. “Yes! It’s Christmas!”

Lestrade let out a laugh. “Must be. John loves you, he really does. So, I told him that you love him too. I didn’t tell him that you told me, I just said that you were obvious. Which you are.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that before. Apparently Molly also knew.”

“Well, once I told him that you love him, he didn’t hold anything back. But remember, he doesn’t know that I’ll telling you. So you either need to confess your feelings, or wait till he does.”

Sherlock just stared into a corner for a moment, thinking. “W-When did he leave the bar?”

“About five minutes ago.”

Sherlock did some quick math in his head. “That leaves me three minutes to get ready!”

“Get ready for what?”

“I don’t know! I’m panicking! What do I do? What do I say?”

“Sherlock, you tell him the truth. Tell him how you feel and that you love him, then ask what he wants to do about your feelings for each other, and please, for the love of God, mention that you are emotionally available and are willing to put him above your work. Don’t give me that, I’m married to my work, bullshit. You’re gonna have to divorce your work but you can still be friends. John is first.”

“Of course he’s first, John’s always come first.”

“I’ve noticed.”

Sherlock scoffed at first, but slowly frowned as his worried took over. “Greg?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you. Really. This means a lot to me.”

“I know. It’s no problem. Now go make John your boyfriend.”

“I’ll try.”

They said their goodbyes and hung up. Sherlock was down to a solid minute before John arrived.

The minute was cut short when he heard the front door open and close.

Footsteps up the stairs.

Sherlock panicked and he ended up standing just a meter away from the door. Staring at it.

It opened and John walked in, looking nervous, almost afraid.

He closed the door behind him and swallowed. “Hey. Do anything interesting?”

“Yes, I memorized the footprints of various animals.”

“Why?”

“Bored.”

John gave a nod and hung his jacket up. “What animals have you memorized?”

“Most of them.”

Of course he did.

John let out a chuckle, but it wasn’t just because of Sherlock’s snarky response. It was nervous, careful. John was obviously worried about something.

Truthfully, he wanted to tell Sherlock his feelings, but he didn’t know how to start. So he started at the root of his doubt and tried to work from there. “Remember when we first met? I asked you about boyfriends and girlfriends and instead of just telling me that you’re gay, you avoided it. Where did that even come from?”

Sherlock only shrugged. “I didn’t think it would ever matter, because nobody ever stays around long enough for it to be relevant. I underestimated you. I thought you were like everyone else. I thought wrong.”

John was silent a moment, but Sherlock was fidgeting through it.

“Are you alright, Sherlock?”

Sherlock quickly put on a smile. “Yes, of course. I was only thinking of the case we finished. Shame that those girls were made to kill people.”

John nodded and cringed a bit. “Of course, it was terrible. But I don’t think you’re being honest with me.” He knew Sherlock, saw right through him. He was a bit spaced out, confused, he was thinking over something much heavier than a solved case.

“I’m always honest with you.”

“That was a fucking lie. Need I remind you that you faked your death? Cause that was a big lie.”

Sherlock just looked down. “Right. Sorry about that.”

“Never properly kicked your ass for that.”

“Are you joking? You tore my stitches.”

“Stitches?” John’s voice was hollow, shock sucking the feeling out of him.

It just occurred to Sherlock that he never actually told John that he had been kidnapped and tortured, though he did tell him that he dismantled Moriarty’s web of crime.

“Dammit.” He swore softly.

“What did you not tell me?”

“You’re gonna kill me for this one.”


	11. Liars Come Clean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock comes clean about his kidnapping, torture, and injuries.
> 
> John decides to honor Sherlock’s honesty by telling more about himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTAINS NO GRAPHIC VIOLENCE but explains Sherlock’s injuries and healing process.

“Sherlock, what did you do?”

“It isn’t what I did, it’s what happened to me.”

John sighed and they ended up sitting on the couch, turned to face one another.

“What happened?”

“I was honest when I said I dismantled Moriarty’s web, but, there was a bit of a complication. A month before I returned, I was kidnapped and held in an underground bunker in Serbia.”

“What the fuck.” Was all John could manage to get out in response to the sudden news.

“Mycroft helped me, he worked through their ranks from the moment I was taken and he got me out. I escaped the morning of the day I returned to you.”

“So, you had stitches in? Did they hurt you?”

“Of course, I was treated like a prisoner of war. I was tortured daily. Waterboarding, electrocution, slicing me up, whipping me, leaving me chained in physically stressful positions, human ash tray, and sometimes I was made to do work. Although I didn’t have access to proper medical treatment at the time, so I had to improvise stitches with a fishhook and line. I also had vodka to disinfect my wounds but as you can imagine a lot of things didn’t heal properly and/or got infected. Most of my injuries are gone now. But what didn’t heal properly are only scars now. Just bigger and more hideous than most.”

John’s jaw dropped in shock. “Are you serious?”

Sherlock nodded.

“I fucking tackled you! I punched you! I did all that and your body was already broken and damaged and you didn’t even say anything!”

“Of course I didn’t. I didn’t care if you were beating me up, I just wanted you back.”

John stared at Sherlock in disbelief. “You let me kick your arse.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and mumbled, “I wouldn’t say you kicked my arse.”

John cracked a smile. “No, I did. But still. You let me hurt you. You stitched yourself up with a fishing hook and line?!”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you go to a proper hospital when you came back?”

“I don’t like hospitals.”

It didn’t take long for John to put two and two together. “You’ve overdosed?” He always silently suspected it.

Sherlock looked at the ground, ashamed. “Once. Accidentally.”

John sat up straight. “Well. It’s a good thing you’re clean. Because if it happened again, I would beat your arse while you’re laying in the hospital bed.”

Sherlock laughed, “You can go to jail for assaulting a patient.”

John rolled his eyes, “It’d be worth it.”

“Mm, kicking my arse is worth prison, I take that as a complement.”

Sherlock gave a half-smile before continuing with his medical tale. “I couldn’t let the wounds heal with the fishing line still in me, so I had to eventually pull it out. That was two weeks after being here. I ended up with bandaids everywhere. I didn’t fully heal till a few months ago if I’m honest. That’s when I finished taking care of the cuts that got infected.”

John stared at the ground a moment and shook his head. “Is that it then?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is there any other significant part of your life that you haven’t told me about, or do I know everything?”

“Unless you’d like to hear about my birth, yes. I’d say you know most everything.”

“And you know nothing about me.”

Sherlock couldn’t tell if John sounded more saddened or guilty by the fact. He decided to prompt John’s storytelling to make him feel better. “You were homeless and living with a group while being employed by the mob. You and Harry were taken in by Acacia after they were busted.”

John frowned, shutting his eyes. He decided now was as good a time as ever. “Would you like to hear more?”

Sherlock quickly nodded. “You let off at age four. You and Harry had just been taken in by Acacia and were being homeschooled due to your lack of birth certificates or identification needed to enroll in school.” He was quite eager.

John thought a moment, figuring out where to go from there. “Right. Well when I turned five, I started working at the docks. I helped to load and unload ships, but I also played lookout for the cops. Lots of criminals use docks to move products around, so in reality, I was working for quite a few groups at once. I was working from midnight till lunchtime. They had another kid working the other half. I liked being by the ocean at night. It was dark and warm. It was perfect. But Acacia and Harry weren’t happy about me working through the night and for gangs, but it was what I needed to do. We needed money. Acacia was living off benefits and that didn’t include me and Harry. We didn’t even exist according to the government. So I worked there and got paid a couple dollars a day by each group I played lookout for. I remember it was about a fifty a week because my salary went to food while Acacia’s went to bills and savings.”

John bit his lip, it was hard to explain what happened next without revealing a big truth. He worked his way around it as best as he could.

“Not everyone in the gangs, wanted to be there. Some wanted out. It’s easier said than done.” John paused a moment, trying to find a way to explain himself. “I grew up fast out there. There wasn’t any ounce of evil that I was sheltered from. Serial killers, rapists, pedophiles, slaves, drugs, alcohol, doing terrible things to survive. I was spared no evil, and that’s why I knew I had to get out. Especially Harry. I had to get her out. It wasn’t because she can’t defend herself, she can work wonders with a crowbar, it was that she’s a girl and therefore she’ll be targeted more often than me.”

John paused again, thinking. Doubt and fear clouded his mind, making it hard for him to collect his thoughts. He was also still a bit tipsy.

Sherlock licked his lips, able to deduce the next part. “So you and Harry, ran away?”

“With Acacia’s permission.” He confirmed. “She hated gangs. Blamed them for what happened to her son. She wanted us out and far away from it. Some guys made a plan at the docks to make a break for Brighton. I asked if me and my sister could come along. Most of them knew us and said it was fine. Acacia agreed. So we were off. We left for Brighton, wanted to start over. Start fresh.”

John looked down, unsure of how far to go. For some reason, he really didn’t want to stop yet. He wanted to keep being honest. He almost enjoyed being honest, finally confessing his sins.

“There were twenty of us and it took a few days, but we made it. Anthony was one of the people we traveled with. When we got to Brighton, most of them looks for jobs at the docks. It’s what they were familiar with. Others, looked to gangs. It seems redundant to look for the thing you ran from. But it was all they knew when getting a job at the docks didn’t work out. We were mostly homeless for a while, till there came a split.”

There it was, his move into London. The day his life went spiraling into a dark and dangerous path, and he wasn’t sure how far or how much he would tell. He decided he would be as honest as possible, but he wasn’t dropping the big bombs yet. He needed to wait for those. Of course, it wasn’t that he didn’t trust Sherlock, it was that it was hard to face himself. He’s done unforgivable things. He’s done things that get people sent to prison, and then they never come back.

Of course, he had his boundaries. There were some things you couldn’t force him to do. Things like sexual assault, he couldn’t do something like that, wouldn’t. Ever. But he’s done a lot of other stuff.

How is he suppose to tell Sherlock this? How is Sherlock suppose to hear this and then be able to look him in the eye.

Perhaps John can’t expect that.

“Uhm. So. The part of the group looking to rejoin a gang, they were told to look in London. Given directions and instructions on how to get somewhere good. The rest who were on the docks, they didn’t want to leave. They had a living. Me and Harry, we had a choice to make. But old devils are better than new ones. Me and Harry knew how to survive on the streets and in a gang. We were used to it. So we moved on to London, left Anthony behind. I was six, so it had been a few months since I was in a gang. But I hadn’t lost my touch. I was working for another one soon enough. Me and Harry, back at it again.”

He decided to stop there. He didn’t like where the story was going. He didn’t know how to explain the next decade of his life. 

John shook his head and looked away. “I-I’m done, Sherlock. I’m sorry. The next part is just, difficult for me.”

Sherlock gave a sympathetic smile. “That’s alright John. You don’t have to keep going if you don’t want to. Just know that there’s nothing you can say that’ll scare me off.”

John looked up at him, almost afraid. “You have no idea what I’ve done Sherlock. I’m not the righteous and caring man you think I am. At least, I wasn’t always. Don’t overestimate me. I can sink very deep into the depths of anger and hate. I did.” He looked away, “I was stupid.” He muttered.

“No. You thought crime was your only option. Then, after secondary school, or maybe during, something changed. Something changed in you and you knew that you had to change your situation. You joined the army and became a doctor. Now you perform surgeries and save lives in the hospital, _and_ you stop killers. The boy you were thirty years ago, he’s gone. You’ve spent every day of your life atoning for his sins, and you’re forgiven John. You are forgiven. No matter how many wrongs you’ve committed, you’ve doubled in rights. I promise you. You aren’t him anymore.”

John nearly cried. Instead, he silently pressed his face into Sherlock’s chest and he closed his eyes. This is where he wanted to be.

After a few moments Sherlock slowly wrapped his arms around John. He was hesitant, but enjoyed the moment very much.

He closed his eyes and listened to Sherlock’s heartbeat.

In that moment, everything was okay.

His past didn’t matter.

What he did, didn’t matter.

Everything was perfect.

Just him and Sherlock in their flat in London.

He could stay like that forever.

Just the two of them, together, he wanted to stay like that for eternity. Nothing had ever been so perfect to him.

It was almost as warm as the beach in his head. The one he hasn’t seen since he was a kid. The one burnt into his mind.

His perfect piece of the world. He almost felt a weight lift off his shoulders, like everything would be alright.

Karma is forgiving to those who have a change of heart and to those who end their wicked ways.

Sherlock and John’s hearts ached, together. Both of them wanted to be together, both of them knew the other loves them, yet they’re still apart. It hurt.


	12. Shed Skin, Show Bone, Skeletons in the Closet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another piece of John’s past.

Being held the day before prompted John to confess more. It was as if he was desperately trying to have it again. The moment was so warm and sweet. It was everything he ever could have wanted.

Yesterday would have been the perfect day to confess his feelings. Just being held by Sherlock made him so brave and without doubt. But now, he was nervous again.

Sherlock was nearly in pain from how stupid he felt. He also blamed himself, wishing he had said something the day before. There’s no point in worrying about a negative reaction when all the data points to John having a positive reaction. But for some reason, in that moment, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he was nervous, scared, and he only wanted John to be his.

They found themselves on the couch again, seated and angled to face each other. John began recounting his past once more when he returned home from work that evening.

“In London, we lived with a few people on the streets. For ..... various reasons, the ..... the group fell apart.”

He stopped, pausing a moment and then shaking his head. He decided that he wasn’t going to step around details that weren’t too bad. Honesty was key. “We were with three adults. One was on cocaine, ended up in jail. Another was too violent, took being a thug too seriously. And the third, well I didn’t like the way he looked at Harry. We fell apart pretty damn fast and I’ll admit it was mostly my fault. Everyday I asked Harry if we could leave because of him, I would stay up at night and watch him, make sure he was asleep. I hated that man. He’s dead now.” He spoke as if he delighted in the fact that he was dead. But he had a good reason to be.

“Anyways, we were on our own but we had connections. Connections that got us fake birth certificates. We also paid a prostitute that we hung out with to pose as our mother and enroll us in school. Got fake records for a school in Brighton to say we transferred. We got in and got educated. We were balancing school and work. We made enough to regularly use the launderette, and for gym memberships so we could shower. Everything else went towards food, supplies, and things for school. We made a good living with it for the next year.”

“The next year?” Sherlock questioned. John’s statement implied their current way of life didn’t last very long. But John went from homelessness, to Acacia, to Brighton, to London all in a year, and now thing’s are to change again only a year later. John had a busy youth. To Sherlock’s dismay, he knew John must’ve been a small and stressed out kid.

“Yes, the next year was good. Well, good considering our situation. After that year, change happened. The good kind. Harry got out of the gang. We were both hoping she’d be able to do it, she didn’t need to be apart of it. She didn’t want to be. I was seven and she was nine. She got a job sweeping the floor of a barbershop. Technically, since she was nine, that job also wasn’t legal. But the barber felt bad for her. We were each getting twenty a day for our respective jobs. We probably could’ve gotten a shabby flat, but, we were scared, and we were kids. We didn’t know how and we didn’t think anyone would sell to us. And we ..... we ran into some problems along the way.”

John looked down and swallowed, he hated the next part. “I got sick. Really sick. Now that I’m older I realize it was probably bronchitis. But we had no idea. I couldn’t just go to the doctor. We asked all the adults we knew and they weren’t too sure. They recommended different medicines. Things for pain, stuffy nose, coughing, things like that. Basic stuff. I was mixing pills, at one point it was so bad I couldn’t get up for a couple days. It’s amazing I didn’t get chronic bronchitis. Being homeless meant I didn’t have the usual path to recovery. There were ups and downs. Then Harry, she had hypertension and had to get medicine for high blood pressure. Thankfully it only lasted a few months after getting her new job. Once she fell into a routine and we were keeping a steady income, her blood pressure lowered to normal levels. Then there was a time that we were helping a friend of ours, Monica, the woman who posed as our mother. Her pimp got arrested, which was actually a great thing, so we helped her out. We would deliver groceries and supplies to her flat along with some rent money. About half our income went to her while she got back on her feet.”

John actually let out a laugh. “I’m beginning to realize how obsessed with money I was. I would count it all the time, do the math and calculate how much we could save. I was obsessed with the idea of watching the numbers rise. I would do the math and see how long it would take to get us up to a million. I really liked money.” He shook his head, a soft smile on his face at the memory. “Anyways. Took her a month but Monica landed a job as a cashier. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. The end of that year was a time of change. Harry getting out, our illnesses, Monica. But it was for the better.”

It was then that John realized he didn’t have much further to go from there. After that, his life was basically the same until he joined the military and went to uni. There wasn’t much left besides the hard truths.

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows as he realized they hadn’t actually gotten much further into John’s life yet. He just got the ending events of his seventh year of being alive.

Sherlock tilted his head. “So you’re seven and Harry’s nine right now?”

“Yes.”

“There are no more surprises after you go to uni and join the army, yes?”

John nodded, “This is the road I’m on until I turn eighteen. But, this is the part where it’s hard to talk around the bigger details. I can’t avoid them as easily. There are some thing’s that I’m not going to be ready to say for a while.”

It was in that moment that Sherlock realized how haunted John was. He had so many secrets he’s never told. This is the most vulnerable he’s ever made himself. He was in a gang so who knows what he’s done. He was under such stress as a child, he grew up far too fast, and never had a real childhood. All the things that Sherlock’s normalized, family holidays to the beach, presents and a big meal on Christmas, family gatherings he had to attend, birthday parties, John never had any of that. He didn’t have a happy childhood, he didn’t have a childhood at all. He grew up stressed and miserable.

“Have you ever had a birthday party?” Sherlock asked.

John actually looked afraid at the mention of birthday parties. “Not really. Every year Harry would get me a little present or two and would buy us cupcakes.”

“Why don’t you like your birthday?”

John looked anywhere accept at Sherlock. “I have this irrational fear that if I were to celebrate my birthday, no one would show up, or everyone would forget. I don’t know why.”

“July seventh. I’m never going to forget.”

John couldn’t help but to crack a smile. “Thank you.”

“What about Christmas?”

“Really, Sherlock? You already know the answer.”

“Perhaps. But I want to hear it from you.”

John sighed, “Fine. Harry, oh god. She would wear ornaments as earrings. These bright purple ones. She would make me wear reindeer antlers. Every year we would sit out there like that. We would get each other two or three presents. Usually clothes, we never had an affinity for toys. Clothes were especially important because we were both starting to grow and Harry was about to hit puberty so we knew that more money would have to be dedicated to clothes than before.”

Sherlock was almost amazed at how John turned Christmas into something technical and worried about money. “How did you know about puberty?”

“We were friends with druggies, drunks, prostitutes, and thugs. There was little we didn’t know. Monica acted like a mother to us. She always helped me pick out clothes for Harry because I wanted to get her stuff she would like but I didn’t know where to start.”

Sherlock tilted his head. “When I asked who raised you, you said Acacia. But Monica seems much more like a mother figure.”

John shrugged and looked away. “I guess I was still protecting her. Acacia’s likely dead by now. She was old when she starting caring for us. It’s been almost forty years. But Monica, she was nineteen when we met.”

“But she posed as your mother for school, certainly they weren’t convinced.”

“Sherlock, they could probably recognize that we were homeless and thought Monica was our older sister. They likely didn’t ask questions because they saw it as getting two kids off the streets.”

Sherlock nodded, it was a likely reason. “What’s your middle name? I only know it starts with an H.”

John almost declined to answer. But after a moment, he did. “Hamish. John Hamish Watson.”

“You likely have Scottish roots then.”

“Sherlock, I was born without a middle name. Monica chose that for me when we got our fake birth certificates because I needed one and she said it was fit me.”

“Oh.” It was hard to readjust his thinking for John’s unique upbringings.

“Are you even sure about your birthday, then?”

“Completely. Our names and birthdays were the only thing Harry knew about us in the beginning. Most two year olds can remember basic things like that.”

Sherlock leaned forward some, getting more interested. “What about Halloween, St. Patrick’s Day, Valentine’s Day, New Years?”

John just gave a shrug. “Never celebrated it, never celebrated it, I would buy chocolate for Harry, never celebrated it.”

“I can understand a disinterest in Halloween and St. Patrick’s Day, but you really never celebrated New Years?”

“When there’s nothing at all to look forward to, when the passage of time means nothing to you, when you don’t think you have a future, why celebrate a new year of the same shit? Yay, 365 more days of doing the same things over and over again. No, we didn’t care because for us, there was nothing to celebrate. Sure, there were some who celebrated every holiday because it brought joy into their lives, but we hated them. Maybe it was jealousy, but while we were on the streets we rarely celebrated anything.”

Sherlock was a bit surprised. He would’ve imagined John and Harry would try to be as positive as possible. But perhaps he was looking at it all wrong. He pictured them as being that way due to a childlike innocence, but they never had that, they were grown up, little adults. They were likely a bit depressed.

“Have you ever considered that you and Harry might’ve been depressed?”

“Oh, I know Harry was. Harry got help, especially when I went into the army. Talked to a therapist, tried it a few years, she stopped going when her depression mostly faded away and only ever returned for a few days every couple months. Now, she rarely gets like that. But me, I know I likely have PTSD. Very mild, but likely. Balancing work and school, always having to be vigilant and a bit paranoid, the pressure of Harry and Monica relying on me, pressure to step up in the gang, .....”

John paused a moment, realizing the next chapter in his life’s story. “Things happened, things that I don’t like talking about. Very bad things. You’ll understand later.” He didn’t want to talk about it now.

Sherlock gave a nod, their conversation fizzling into silence that lasted a short while.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”

“What?”

“That’s the whole of it.”

Sherlock felt like he should share since John shared so much about himself. John put so much on the table and Sherlock didn’t want John to feel like it was just him putting things out there.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes.” John repeated and he then smiled. “You have a lovely name.”

“As do you, John Hamish Watson.”

John snorted, remembering stories he was told as a child. “If I were a fairy, telling me your full name like that would be quite dangerous.”

Sherlock beamed and let out a soft chuckle st the mention of fairytales. “I’m not worried about it. I trust you.”

“I trust you too.”

“I can tell. Remember, you don’t have to tell me everything yet. You’ve shared so much over the past couple days. You can take a break if you want. I know this is hard.”

John gave a nod, “Yea. I think I’d like to stop for a while.”

“Know I’m ready to listen whenever you’re ready to talk.”

“Thank you, Sherlock.”

“No, thank you.”

“For what?”

“Trusting me.”


	13. Piecing Together The Puzzle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is a puzzle.
> 
> Sherlock wants to solve him.
> 
> More pieces emerge.
> 
> The puzzle becomes a bit clearer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING! I used Google translate for the foreign languages so please, I already know how rough the translations are.

If John were a puzzle then Sherlock would have the framework down. He also would also have the very center, the focal point of the image, put together and waiting to be added.

He knew John as a child and adult. But it was the decade of eight to eighteen where the mystery lies.

The mystery is so great and consuming, that it almost makes it impossible to understand picture without it.

Sherlock didn’t want to, but he phoned Mycroft again, just to see if he dug anything up.

He couldn’t tell Sherlock anything that John hasn’t already. In fact, Mycroft had even missed a few details. No wonder John was never worried about Sherlock’s snooping. It yields no fruit.

But another case is what gave Sherlock a huge curveball.

Three brothers and their cousin had been murdered over the course of a month and no one could figure out why.

The police were desperate to catch the killer before he either kills again or has decided his mission is over and is never seen again.

Sherlock was quite excited.

“John! We’ve got a case!” He said happily and John glanced up from the paper as Sherlock sat down on his couch.

“Oh, what happpened?”

“Three brothers and their cousin were killed. Died of hypothermia, but it’s spring! I’m thinking liquid nitrogen.”

“Oh, what are their names?”

“Ivan, Peter, Erik, and Arthur Vasiliev.”

John looked up, surprised. Really his expression was akin to pure shock.

He set his newspaper down and he blinked a few times, seeming to pull himself together. “Frozen, you say?”

“Yes.” Sherlock said, a mix of confused and concerned. “Are you, familiar with them?”

“Happy Julian. He did it.”

“What?”

“Happy Julian. His real name’s Julian Ferro, but everyone calls him Happy or Happy Julian. He’s a hitman. This was the mob.”

“The mob?! John, they were upstanding citizens.”

“Strange, cause I’ve seen their meth labs. They have an entire underground business and they’ve been paying off their accountants for years to make it look normal. Tell Lestrade to take the families of their accountants into protective custody and they’ll tell him everything.”

Sherlock’s jaw dropped, “You’ve been in a meth lab?”

“Yea. Homeless. Worked for a gang.” He casually reminded.

“You watched for cops!”

“At first.” He corrected.

“John, you don’t have to tell me. Not yet. But, did you do any of the drugs?”

John shook his head. “I was homeless. I saw how drugs tore people up and made them prioritize all the wrong things. I wasn’t dumb enough to try, albeit occasionally tempted.”

Sherlock gave a curious look. “So, you’ve been in their meth labs. Why?”

“I had to go there to talk with them on behalf of my higher-ups.”

Sherlock tilted his head, “Like an ambassador.”

“No.” John spoke bitterly, “My job was to wave a gun around and raise hell till I got what we wanted.”

“Oh.” Sherlock wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that. He decided to change the subject a bit, “And how do you know Happy?”

John actually smiled at this. “I’ve known him since we were in year eight. Bastard was my lab partner, always had a fixation with how liquid nitrogen could just freeze things. When the hits started a few years later, I recognized his work. I asked him about it and he was proud to take credit.”

“You didn’t tell the police?”

“Uh, no. He was my friend and he was killing the people that me and my gang didn’t like. So I sort of appreciated him.”

Sherlock was amazed by how okay John was with murder. He didn’t care about people dying when he was younger. But now, he did.

He knew Afghanistan was probably to blame for the change.

”So, they made meth. You never tried any?”

“God no! I wasn’t interested in smoking, the thought of snorting drugs was horrifying, and I hate needles, which is weird because I’m a doctor.”

Sherlock let out a laugh. “Why don’t you like needles?”

“They hurt.” He said it like it was obvious.

Sherlock shook his head, “I suppose that’s a good reason. But exercising can hurt yet that doesn’t stop you.”

“Exercise is good for you.” John argued in a matter-of-fact tone.

“As can needles be.”

“No. Needles are bad. They can go so deep inside you, and release stuff into your body.”

“I can think of other things that do that.” He said slyly.

“Like bees. They sting people.” Somehow bees were the first thing on John’s mind.

“I was thinking male genitalia, but sure, bees.”

John’s jaw tightened and his eyes widened. He couldn’t believe Sherlock just said that. “So. Happy Julian. Go get him.” He quickly changed the subject.

Of course Sherlock said it on purpose. He knew exactly what he was doing. Planting a dirty thought it someone’s mind can consume them for days. He wanted to mess with John a little bit, it was the best he had since he still hadn’t confessed his feelings.

“You aren’t coming?”

“He knows way too much about my past, he’d rat me out if he thought I had something to do with this.”

Sherlock leaned back some in his seat, moving up in the gang, friends with a killer, and visiting meth labs to threaten people. Could John have been a hitman? No. If he was, he either wouldn’t show any emotion when killing someone, or he’d be a little too happy about it.

Sherlock shook his head as he wondered a moment before calling Lestrade to tell him who the killer was. He made sure to mention that John was the one who solved it, he wouldn’t take credit for something he didn’t do.

He sat back down and stared at John a moment. He couldn’t believe the complete and utter mystery that the man had become.

“Why did you move up in the gang?”

John looked up at Sherlock and hesitated before answering, “For Harry. She left the gang but I still wanted her protected. I had to take on more responsibility and become more liable for a request like that to even be considered. I had to-“ he cut himself off, wondering how to word it, “I had to make myself more important. I had to become someone valuable, someone they didn’t want to lose.”

But if he had become so valuable, then why would they left him leave? Or at the very least, why wouldn’t they have a hit out for him, a price on his head, how is he still alive? He doesn’t seem worried at all walking through the more dangerous areas of London. But if he had up and left a gang, then he should be.

Though Sherlock was no expert at this particular subject, as his cases usually don’t involve gang related murders, he knew it made no logical sense for someone to just be able to walk out of a gang. Something must’ve happened. Could the gang have been dismantled? All the leaders been arrested and then the lower members left scattered? There was no way John could’ve walked out, not if he really made himself important.

Sherlock shook his head, baffled.

“You’ve managed to become my greatest mystery. You’re the only person I’ve met, that I don’t understand.” Sherlock commented.

“Guess I shouldn’t spoil my secrets, then.”

Of course John was only joking, and Sherlock knew this. But he wasn’t going to let John make up a reason to not tell him about his past.

“No. There are many other things about you that baffle me. How you can peel an orange in one go, how you’re so incredibly short, how you get so defensive when I point out that you’re short, how you can mimic bird calls after hearing it once, how you can keep up with me, you don’t struggle to understand me, and sometimes I even find you’re a step ahead. You’re incredible.”

John was a bit surprised, but the expression was soon replaced by a soft smile. “Well don’t go waxing poetic about me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock only smiled and John chuckled, feeling a joyful warmth in his chest. The warmth was later replaced by the ache of still not being with Sherlock. He regretted chickening out of his moment a few days ago. “Did you notify Lestrade on his killer?”

“Yes, Happy was arrested a few moments ago. Thankfully they found a bit of his blood at the scene from where he scratched himself and didn’t notice. But you realize that if it wasn’t for the evidence, they would need you as a witness.”

John nodded, “Yea.”

“Then why did you tell me who it was? You could have pretended you didn’t know.”

“I did it for multiple reasons. Firstly, I don’t like lying to you, and a lie of omission is still a lie. Secondly, I guess it’s just time to put him away where he can’t hurt anyone else. I didn’t say anything for years, but now’s my chance, so I took it. I didn’t even consider I might have to testify till after I already told you.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure what to make of what he was just told. Of course he appreciated that John didn’t like lying to him, but the rest of it was strange. He let a hitman run around for years because he was scared that Happy would rat him out if he did. Rat him out for what? What sort of secret could be so important to John that he would rather let people die than have anyone find out?

Sherlock couldn’t imagine John valuing anything over the lives of others. But perhaps it was easy since gang deaths, no matter how strange, often went unreported. Happy hadn’t been relevant in his life till now, he was probably in a blissful ignorance about how many people Happy had killed. But now he can’t ignore it anymore.

Sherlock didn’t understand in the slightest. And the more evidence that came in, the more confused he became.

\- - - - -

A week later, they were investigating the death of a shopkeeper. His limbs had been sliced off and scattered, throat slashed. The Yard didn’t want to risk this being the work of a future serial killer so they called in Sherlock while the body count was still at one.

Sherlock went to talk to the man’s mother, but she only spoke Russian.

Sherlock, like his brother, can easily figure out almost any language. But they rarely remembered them. It was more for short term memory, they remembered it while it was relevant, and forgot when it wasn’t. He needed to hear some more of the language in order to figure it out.

John saw the hesitation and concentration on Sherlock’s face.

The gears in John’s head began going at a mile a minute. Should he do it? Was it worth it? Would he have to explain? What would he say?

He didn’t have an answer for anything.

He couldn’t logic his way out, so he went with his gut instinct.

He approached the mother and gave a soft smile. “Я очень сожалею вашей утрате.”

(I’m very sorry for your loss)

The woman broke out into sobs and pulled John into a hug. She was probably incredibly stressed due to her loss and since no one around could understand he. Meeting John was a bit of a relief.

Sherlock’s jaw dropped and Lestrade raised an eyebrow. “Hm, I didn’t know he spoke Russian.”

“Neither did I.” Sherlock said, somewhat amazed.

“Он убил моего ребенка, он убил моего сына!”

(He killed my baby, he killed my son!)

“Я знаю. Все будет отлично. Мы найдем человека, который сделал это.”

(I know. Everything will be fine. We’ll find the person who did this.)

“Да. Конечно. Чем могу помочь?”

(Yes. Of course. How can I help?)

He began taking the woman through a series of standard questions. What did she see, hear, when did she find her son, did she move him after she found him, etc.

He walked over to Lestrade and Sherlock after he finished. “She said she didn’t see anything but she heard him arguing with someone in the shop before it happened. Said it went quiet all of a sudden. Then she went down there after about ten minutes.”

“Then the killer must have sliced his throat first and defiled the body after he was dead. A fit man too, either that or he had an amazing knife. The cuts are clean, took the limbs off in just a few swings.” Sherlock continued to discuss the crime scene with Lestrade and John, but his mind was still reeling about how John knew Russian so fluently.

After only an hour Sherlock and John were off on someone’s trail. The dead man’d cousin, Troy. Likely suspect since he has a history of psychosis and self-medication.

Found him in his apartment with blood on his clothes. He also worked as a butcher, so he would be strong enough to remove body parts. He knew where the weakest parts of the body are, where to cut.

Street cameras have him entering the shop five minutes before the murder and show him leaving right after.

It was a quick case but the case was fun. It took them halfway across London.

After he was apprehended, Sherlock and John took a cab home.

Sherlock turned to John and asked, “So, when were you going to tell me you spoke Russian?”

“I wasn’t. I was never relevant.”

“I thought lies of omission were still lies.”

“Yes, but linguistic skills aren’t that important.”

“You speak fluent Russian. It would’ve been unimportant if you knew a few curses and could ask where the bathroom is, but being completely fluent is entirely different.”

“Alright then. I’m also fluent in Polish and Pashto.”

“Pashto you would’ve learned while serving in Afghanistan. Polish, it’s similar to Russian but more akin to German. I’m surprised you don’t speak it as well.”

John shrugged, “I never needed to learn German.”

Never _needed_ to learn it.

Polish is one of the biggest immigrant languages in England, but why would he _need_ to learn it? And why would he _need_ to learn Russian? 

It would make sense considering his apparent hell-raising in the meth labs owned by the Russian men who were murdered a week ago. Might as well threaten them in their own language. Maybe he became a translator in the gang. He may have learned Russian to make communications with potential meth suppliers easier.

As for Polish, so many people spoke it that it would be ridiculous to think there isn’t some sort of Polish mob running around. Or at the very least, Polish people who could give access to drugs from outside of the UK. Eastern Europe is full of strange things, drugs included.

It would be a smart move from a business standpoint. Get access to strange Eastern drugs to appeal to the large Polish population. It would make a lot of money. If all else fails, they can get regular Brits hooked. Either way, they make money.

“Was that it, then? Were you their translator?”

John tilted his head, “No. Not exactly. There were multiple people who could speak other languages and helped with communication. Sometimes I was given a message or an order to carry out and it required the linguistic skills. It was also useful because they couldn’t just whisper in their native language and decide to screw us over.”

Sherlock gave a nod. “Hmm. Then why learn it if it wasn’t that relevant?”

John bit his bottom lip, “Because ..... because it’s more relevant than I’m willing to admit. I don’t want to. I can’t.”

John let out a huff and held his face in his hands, his doubts frustrating him.

“Not today, but I’m getting close Sherlock.”

Sherlock gave a nod, trying to hide his excitement. “When do you think you’ll be ready?”

“I don’t know. I’ll uh. I’ll tell you in two months tops. Can you wait that long?”

“Of course I can. Take all the time you need.”

Sherlock couldn’t fucking wait.


	14. A Good Case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new case comes around and it’s like nothing Sherlock has ever seen before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The case is based off an episode of Criminal Minds I saw a few months ago.

John can speak four languages.

JOHN CAN SPEAK FOUR LANGUAGES.

Sherlock was on the verge of sleep when he realized this.

John could speak four languages and he never mentioned it because he didn’t think it was important.

What else did he assume was unimportant?

Sherlock had to wait until the morning for an answer because John was already asleep and Sherlock didn’t want to wake him.

After a few moments he was on the edge of sleep again.

Six hours of sleep was just enough for Sherlock, he preferred seven since that was the minimum that he could call a good night's rest. He understood the importance of sleep because he knew that too little or too much can shorten one's lifespan, and life was too short as it is.

It was good he got enough, because the next morning, he got a call from Lestrade.

"Sherlock, I got something for you. It's bad, it's really bad."

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows, "What's going on?"

"I'll tell you everything we've got, but you and John need to get down to the station now."

The urgency in Lestrade's voice was bordering on fear, that worried Sherlock so he wasted no time in motioning for John to follow him out the door.

\- - - - -

"Hello Mr. Harrison, please sit down." Lestrade said as he entered the interrogation room where a man was crying.

John and Sherlock watched from the other side of the glass.

"Do you know where you are?"

"Yes, the Yard."

Lestrade nodded, "I want you to tell me exactly what happened last night, don't leave out any detail."

The man took a deep breath, "Me and,” the man let out a shaky sigh, "me and Sarah had just finished getting ready for bed. She said she heard something downstairs or outside. I said it was probably a stray. She wanted me to go look, so I did. I walked all around downstairs. It was all fine until I was about to go upstairs until ..... I smelt something ....." Mr. Harrison trailed off a moment, trying to collect himself. "Lavender, it was lavender. I remember I thought it was weird cause Sarah hates lavender so we wouldn't have anything lavender scented. That’s when I heard growling, it was horrible. I ran upstairs and shouted for Sarah to call the police. But whatever it was, it grabbed me, yanked me back downstairs. And ..... I ..... "

He stopped again, letting out a sob. "I could hear her screaming! She was screaming for me! Screaming for help, my name, for whoever it was to stop hurting her!” He shook through his sobs. “But I couldn't save her, I was stuck. I tried to fight off whatever was holding me. Then it disappeared, and Sarah stopped screaming. I sprinted upstairs and I saw her, dead." He sniffled, wiping his nose with his sleeve. “Then, then I passed out. When I woke up, cops were arresting me. That's exactly what happened."

Lestrade shook his head. "No, it isn't." He didn't speak with an accusatory tone, but a calm one. “Mr. Harrison, you went down to the kitchen, got a knife, and stabbed your wife to death. Your neighbor's heard the screaming and phoned us, and you were found in bed with her, still holding the knife."

"No ..... no, I didn't do it! I couldn't of!"

"Open your shirt."

Mr. Harrison unbuttoned his shirt, revealing scratch marks.

"Do you know how you got those?"

"That's - That's from the shadow monster!"

"No, that's from your wife. Forensics matched your skin under her nails, as she fought to keep you from killing her. Think back to the words she was screaming, think of her tone. Was she calling for you and then telling the attacker to stop, or was she telling you to stop?"

Mr. Harrison looked confused and scared as he thought. Thinking back caused his expression to change to shock and horror. He remembered, his eyes watered. "Why would I do that?"

"I can't tell you that. It's obvious you aren't a killer Mr. Harrison. We’ll figure out what happened to you."

With that, Lestrade left, leaving Mr. Harrison to himself.

Lestrade gave Sherlock and John a stressed expression. "He's the third person this week to smell lavender and claim to be attacked, but actually be killing a family member. We also have Mrs. Sava who killed her boyfriend and Mr. Tillen who killed his mother. None of them remember committing the murder, and all of them say they found their dead family member and then passed out. The three of them aren't connected in any way. In fact, Mrs. Sava just moved here two weeks ago from Dublin. We suspected it could have been a group delusion, but the geographic diversity rules that out. All different economic levels, social circles, and racial and gender backgrounds. It's murder by proxy, if you will, someone is temporarily creating killers. They’ve managed to induce a temporary psychotic break but we don't know how or why."

"Could it be drugs?" Sherlock asked.

"Tox screens came up negative."

"They only screen for known compounds, this could be something new." Sherlock pointed out.

"Drugs affect each person differently, but somehow this drug affects three completely dissimilar people in the exact same way." John commented.

"What if they aren't that different, what if they have a pre-existing medical condition that the bastard has found a way to tap in to? His drug could just be the tipping point." Sherlock mumbled as he thought.

Little did they know, across town, there was a man trying to escape a shadow monster.

\- - - - -

"There was another kill. This time, the killer was also the victim. 43 year old Danny Rogers, he was home alone with his son and he ended up going downstairs and slitting his own throat with a kitchen knife. Neighbor's called the cops because they saw his blood splattered on the window. My guess is he was meant to kill his son, but paternal instincts took over, and if he had to kill someone, he decided he would rather kill himself than his kid. Kid's currently with his mother, they're divorced." Lestrade explained to Sherlock and John the next day.

"I've been looking into this and although drugs affect people in different ways, it is possible to engineer the drugs to send users on either a good or bad trip. We're looking for someone very good at chemistry with a previous record for violence. Nothing major though, it isn't about killing, no, he prefers to watch murders happen right before him. The drugs are the only way he can make it happen the way he wants it too. A person turning on their loved one with a kitchen knife, it's his fantasy, if you will." Sherlock explained what he had come up with the night before.

"But why choose a bad trip? Wouldn't it be better to have the victims believe they're having a grand ole' time and then shock them with a loved one's dead body?" Lestrade asked.

"Because that isn't realistic." John muttered, coming up with his own theory. "He probably wants it to seem as real and as scary as possible so when the victims come to, they genuinely believe they were attacked and that they didn't commit the crime. That way, they're suffering a harsh delusion and then hit with an even worse reality when they learn that they _are_ , in fact, the killer."

Sherlock thought a moment, not enough to go into his mind palace though.

His face lit up when he came to a conclusion. “See if they ever went to some form of therapy as children, or if they’re from similar living situations. Look into their childhoods.”

Lestrade put a team on it, and then asked, “Why?”

“A shadow monster. They were attacked by a shadow monster, and who’s the most famous monster to go bumping around in the dark?”

John sighed, “The Boogeyman.”

“This has something to do with their childhoods. The drug isn’t giving everyone the exact same trip, it’s making the victim face their worst nightmare. For them, something happened in their childhood that their brains encoded and processed as a shadow monster in order to preserve their childhood. Another thing I’ve realized is the lavender, it’s used to calm people down, but instead it’s the last thing they smell before they go on a bad trip and kill someone. Ironic, but, I think it’s used to mask the scent of the drug. It’s a gas, an inhalant.” Sherlock concluded.

John gave a nod, “It would make sense. Inhalants make strong hallucinogenics.”

“But how does he use it to get them to kill?” Sherlock wondered aloud. He often did this even though he already had a theory in mind. He did it to see if John can keep up with him, or at least, offer his own perspective. It never disappointed. At the very least, he thought John’s incorrect speculations were adorable.

John tilted his head, “Well, their stories of being attacked and held back obviously aren’t true. In reality, they could be in some sort of trance. Open to suggestion. Maybe even told that if they do it, the nightmare will end.”

Lestrade sighed. Although he was thankful for the progress they made, it was exhausting to deal with criminals like this. The ones that were organized and careful. “Alright. So we know how he’s doing it all, but we need the why and who.”

“Their childhoods could have the answers to both questions.” Sherlock responded.

They sat about a while, theorizing and going over the tapes of the interviews, seeing if any clues lay there.

Then, a tech analyst knocked on the door. “Sir? We looked into their childhoods like you asked and we found something. All three of them were adopted from the same foster home in Lancaster. But they were only three and four when they were adopted. It all happened around the same time.”

Lestrade nodded, “Any other children from the home?”

The analyst nodded, “Two more. Kylie Logan who also got adopted, and William Jameson, the biological child of the foster parents. We also found a small history of violence. Nothing major, the foster kids would occasionally come to school with cuts and bruises. There was an investigation into abuse, but the kids insisted it was just from playing too rough. Nothing came out of the investigation.”

“Does Jameson happen to have a talent for chemistry?” Sherlock asked.

The analyst looked through her papers. “Uh, yes. He excelled at it in school, it got him a full ride to Oxford, he got his masters in chemistry, and he now works at a research facility. That particular facility works in pharmaceuticals, where Jameson manages a team of researchers looking into hallucinogenics.”

John closed his eyes, relieved at how fast it was going. “Alright, so we have the how and the who, but why?”

Sherlock shrugged, “Does he have a history of violence?”

The analyst glanced at her papers. “No, but the neighbors have left many complaints about dead animals found around their house starting just shortly after everyone was adopted.”

Sherlock nodded, “There you have it. Little Jameson has a house full of foster siblings to torment, then they all get taken away so he starts hurting and accidentally killing animals instead. His affinity for murder and love of chemistry gave him the perfect revenge for his playthings being taken so soon. He brings them down to his level, he makes murderers. He probably got angry because they could survive his sadism but the animals didn’t.”

Lestrade got Kylie’s address from the analyst and soon, everyone was on their way.

John rode with Lestrade, but Sherlock took a cab.

He knew a shorter route and wanted to get there first, but of course, if John had known that he wouldn’t of let Sherlock wander off on his own.

Sherlock arrived and pulled out his gun, knocking on the door at first to see if Kylie was home. She needed to be taken into protective custody, unless Jameson was already there.

“Police, open up!” Sherlock called out, lying.

When that got no response, he kicked the door in. He went inside and slowly went around the house, finally making it to the sitting room.

Kylie was sitting there, holding a knife, smiling. “Oh, hello. I’m so glad you’re here. He was really hoping the police would see this.”

Sherlock’s yes widened at the implication. “Kylie, put the knife down.”

She moved to slit her throat, Sherlock sprang forward, “NO!”

But he wasn’t fast enough, she was soon on the ground, gasping through her last breaths.

While Sherlock was knelt over here, someone sprayed something at him from behind.

He quickly turned and shot at whoever it was, but the mist blinded him and he missed.

A man hit him with a blunt object and then sprayed him again after knocking the gun away.

Sherlock was on the ground, he saw a man standing over him, it was William Jameson. He tried to get up, but was sprayed in the face once more and he passed out.

He could smell lavender.


	15. Death Is The Only God Who Comes When You Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is left at the mercy of William.

Sherlock woke up to the sound of his phone going off. He looked over at it, and although everything was blurry, he knew it was John.

His eyes slowly moved around the dark room. By the shadows he could make out, he knew he was in the same room as before, but the lights were turned off.

He looked up and saw Jameson sitting in front of him, unhooking his gas mask. “You can’t move.” He whispered when he took the mask off. “You can’t move because I said so.”

“Yes I can.” Sherlock muttered, wiggling his fingers in defiance.

William smirked, “You’re a lot more hard-headed than I’m used to.” He seemed excited by this. “What do you see when you look at me? Do you see the Boogeyman? Do you see a monster? I wanna know your thoughts, how do you feel right now?”

“I need to get my phone, it’s my friend.”

”What are you talking about? Your phone isn’t ringing.”

Sherlock looked over and realized his phone was turned off.

Now he wasn’t sure if he had hallucinated that his phone was ringing, or if he hallucinated that it stopped. That seed of doubt gave William his way in and Sherlock knew it.

“You’re nothing more to me than a troublesome psychopath. So go ahead, coerce me into seeing the Boogeyman, scare me. I don’t care. You don’t have much time anyways. The Yard is coming. I’d give it two minutes that I was out and the station is twenty minutes away, give or take depending on traffic. I got here in five minutes, I’ve been here ten minutes tops. Meaning you have ten left, at most. But I don’t think you’ll get very far, you already know I’m different from your other targets, that’s why you tied my hands together.” Sherlock slurred his words some, still fucked up from what was sprayed in his face.

William grimaced, “The others also weren’t being nearly as chatty.”

He seemed to think a moment, and his grimace turned into a smile. "You. You're different. You're interesting." He tilted his head and explained, "People become so obedient if one disorients them first. See, what happens is, the chemicals make their minds get so confused and they don't know how to fight back. You tell them what to do, what to see, what to hear, and their brain complies because it thinks obedience is the only way to make it stop. They won't even realize they're hallucinating, their brains make them believe what they see, and soon enough, the brain forgets that it's choosing obedience. It becomes a slave to suggestion. Humans are naturally such submissive creatures. They all want the same things, love, affection, an easy life, and pleasure. It's how they try to get those things that defines them, some people think they can get it from lying and cheating, think they'll get it from money and power, and others choose hard work. Now I may not care for people, but I always respect the ones who choose hard work-"

Sherlock cut him off, "Is this monologue meant to have a point? For a highly-organized criminal, you're quite scatterbrained."

He ignored Sherlock's comment, "You aren't like the rest of them. You don't seek out love, affection, an easy life, or pleasure. I bet if they could, humans would just go at it like dogs all day and night if they could."

"You talk about humans as if you aren't one."

"So do you. From what I can tell, I'm not human, I'm a monster. It's what you are that I can't figure out. You don't seek out those basic needs, but you are no monster. So what are you?"

"I'm Sherlock."

"Mm. Interesting." William scooted further up in his seat, getting closer to Sherlock. "I think I understand now."

"Please, elaborate." Sherlock challenged.

"You don't openly seek those basic needs like other humans do because you feel like they're beneath you. No, not beneath you, just ..... not necessary. You don't think you need those basic things because you feel like they get in the way of your ambitions. Your ambitions are intellectual, you feed your brain and not your heart. You ignore the needs of your heart and body, you sacrifice for your brain. I bet you wish you could exist as a formless ball of consciousness. No need to eat, sleep, no pain, no pleasure, no death, just eternal intelligence."

Sherlock was a bit surprised at how accurate William was. "Oh, you make me seem like a walking stereotype."

William sat back in his seat, raising an eyebrow and then turning around. “Oh, and you were wrong.” He turned back to Sherlock with a smirk. “You were actually out for fifteen minutes.”

It was then that Sherlock heard it, cars pulling up. A few moment later, he heard knocking at the door. “Police, open up!”

It was Lestrade.

Sherlock grinned up at William.

The door was kicked in, he heard the footsteps of officers, and William ran off.

He heard gunshots. His eyes widened.

Not John, not John, don’t be John, don’t kill John, John cannot die.

Sherlock closed his eyes and silently begged a plethora of gods and goddesses, spirits, the universe, and fate. He asked Death to stay away just a little while longer.

A few moment later, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He opened his eyes with a jolt and he smiled when he saw John. “Oh thank god.”

“Come on, Sherlock, we have to get you out of here. Let me untie you.”

“Where is he?”

“He tried to escape out the back.”

John worked to untie Sherlock and that’s when he heard it.

A gun went off and it sounded much too close.

Sherlock felt a splatter of warm liquid on his cheek.

He heard a thud.

He looked down to see John’s body, bleeding out in front of him.

John was writhing on the ground from being shot in the neck, gasping as he struggled to breath.

“NO! You bastard!” He growled, looking up at William.

It’s true, Sherlock isn’t really a sociopath. But in that moment, he was capable of cold-blooded murder.

“YOU GODDAMN SON OF A BITCH!” Sherlock roared, trying to get up. “I will murder you, William!” It then occurred to Sherlock that he and the killer had the same first name, what a cruel irony.

His heart ached, wishing he had told John that he loved him. “I'm gonna kill you!” He wasn’t sure if he was full of rage or mourning. All he knew was that William was going to pay.

His mind went back to a few days ago, when Sherlock was holding John on the couch. They were so close. Physically and emotionally. Finding out John loves him. He was so close. He should have done it then. He should’ve confessed. He should’ve said something.

But he didn’t.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.” Sherlock said to John in a teary whisper. “This is all my fault, I’m sorry. Just keep applying pressure, please.” His vision became even blurrier as tears fell down his face. “I will murder you, William.”

William only smiled, “Wow. That’s really interesting.” He shot John in the head, ending the man’s misery.

Sherlock gave a raw and blood-curdling shout. “NO!” His voice nearly gave out.

William tilted his head, “Now I know what scares you.”

That’s when Sherlock opened his eyes.

\- - - - -

Sherlock was still on the floor, John wasn’t there, and William was still sitting in front of him.

It was a hallucination.

Sherlock’s jaw dropped and if it weren’t for the fact that he was still discombobulated from the drugs, he probably would have started crying.

“You bastard.” Sherlock spat.

William tilted his head, “You aren’t scared of dying, which is really strange, because, well, everyone fears death. It’s the root of all other fears.” He quickly corrected himself. “Not to say that you don’t, fear death. You obviously do. But it isn’t your own death that you fear, it’s someone else’s. How noble and strange.” He let out a laugh. “I made people kill their mothers and significant others, because everyone’s great fear, when you get down to it, is their own deaths. They didn’t care for others. You’re different. But I don’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing. Took the drug longer than normal to get through to you. I honestly wasn’t sure if it would work for a moment, but of course, you eventually succumbed to it.”

He let out a sigh and gave a half smile. “I must say, I’m actually impressed. You’re so very different. It’s been an honor meeting someone so selfless.” He let out a sigh, as if he was absolutely charmed by Sherlock. “I almost wish I could understand you. I almost wish I could feel what you feel, that I could care like you do. But I think we both know that it would only hinder me from my fun.”

Sherlock glared at him, “I’m still gonna kill you.”

“Oh, I bet you are. Everything’s blurry and you sound plastered, but surely you’ll muster up the coordination to murder.” William tilted his head and grinned, “Wouldn’t that be hilarious? If I just turned you loose on the cops. Make them have to kill you. They would.”

“Some of them have been praying for the day.”

William frowned and hummed. “Well that ruins the fun a bit.”

“My apologies.”

William sat back in his chair, getting comfortable and putting on an amused expression. “You’re good at this. You went from rage, to calm, to sarcastic so quickly. It’s like you’re in total control of your emotions. But it seems, if a certain someone dies, you won’t be anymore.”

Sherlock shrugged, “I’ve never been too concerned with emotions, but you seem to have a fascination.”

“Because I don’t have feelings. At least, not in the same way you do. But you probably already know that. You don’t care for emotions, because you have them. I’m amazed by them, because I am mostly without them.”

“Why are you opening up to me? Don’t you believe you’ll be surviving the evening?” Sherlock taunted, “Do you fear death?”

William shrugged, “I haven’t decided yet. I’m not sure if these are your last moments, mine, or if we both simply part ways and never see each other again.” He paused a moment, destain frozen on his face until he let out a laugh. "My, it seems like I was wrong in my first impression of you. It isn't that you ignore the needs every human has, it's that you suppress them. But it's getting more and more difficult, isn't it? Everyday you want it even more than the last. Touch, love, kisses, warmth, the pleasures of the flesh. Someone's getting close, aren't they? They're the reason it’s getting harder to hold back. They're close to unlocking all those desires that you've kept hidden in yourself. They're getting close and you want them to unlock you, you want to let it out, but I'll bet that just a few years ago you never thought you would feel like this. Like a human. My god, you're in love."

Sherlock heard it again, the sound of a car pulling up to the house.

William got up and smiled, excited. “I have something for you.”

He approached Sherlock and set a knife in his lap. “I’m about to walk through the front door.” He whispered, “Kill me, before I kill you.”

Sherlock looked at the door, he saw movement outside.

“My - My gun, I need my gun.” Sherlock said softly as he worked to get his tied up hands in front of him from behind his back.

William smirked and tossed it in front of Sherlock.

Sherlock put the knife down and grabbed the gun, aiming it at the door.

Just at the door started to open, Sherlock put his finger over the trigger, aiming.

The door open, someone stepped inside, and Sherlock quickly turned around and shot at William instead. The real William.

This alerted the attention of the police who stormed inside and found Sherlock. John was by his side in an instant.

“I was here,” Sherlock panted, “for twenty minutes!”

John furrowed his eyebrows, “How? This is thirty minutes from the station.”

“I know a shortcut.”

“Of course you do.” He said, untying Sherlock and helping him to his feet.

John knew Sherlock was on whatever drugs William made, so he was taken outside to an ambulance for a medic to check him over.

Besides the drugs and a mild concussion, Sherlock was fine.

Lestrade came over a few minutes later. “Sherlock, what happened?”

“I got here about twenty-four minutes before you lot. Walked in, tried to stop Kylie from killing herself, she slit her own throat, then William sprayed me with his drug and hit me in the head. I managed to fight it off towards the beginning and end, just enough time to get in some meaningless conversation, buying time for you to get here.”

John looked extremely concerned. “Well what happened for the middle part?”

Sherlock looked at the ground and muttered, “I saw my worst nightmare.”

Lestrade closed his eyes and John’s lower lip trembled. They felt guilty for not getting there sooner.

“Oh, come on. I was the one who didn’t mention the shortcut.” Sherlock said, not wanting them to feel bad about it.

“Yes, but you went through your own worst nightmare.” Lestrade said in an upset tone. Sherlock knew that Lestrade considered them to be friends, but he didn’t realize Lestrade cared so much.

“What was it?” John asked softly, “You don’t have to answer.” He quickly added, knowing how traumatic it probably was.

Sherlock continued to stare at the ground, he let out a sniffle. “It was you.” He wanted to look up at John, but he couldn’t. “He killed you.”

John was taken aback by this. He didn’t think that his death was Sherlock’s worse nightmare. Compared to all the other horrifying things in this world, losing John was the one thing he couldn’t take.

He wrapped his arms around Sherlock. “You aren’t gonna lose me anytime soon.”

It was then that Lestrade went to deal with William, who had just been caught and arrested.

Sherlock wrapped his arms back around John, press his face into his chest.

John was so warm.

Sherlock broke down.

For the first time, John watched Sherlock cry.

He felt his heart throbbing from the conflicting emotions. He felt like he was mourning John’s death but still so in love with him.

Is this what John felt like?

Sherlock let out soft sobs, he wasn’t a loud crier, but his gasps and whimpers were enough to shatter John’s heart.

He held John as close as he could, he was terrified that he would open his eyes again and John would be gone.

But it was too warm, and his vision was too clear.

He knew it wasn’t a hallucination but he was still scared it wasn’t real.

“I can’t lose you. I can’t lose you John.” Sherlock said softly.

“You won’t. I’m not going anywhere.” He said, holding back his own tears.

He began to softly stroke Sherlock’s back, doing anything he could to comfort his best friend.

“John?” Sherlock asked.

“Yea?”

“I really thought you were dead. And, I-” He cut himself off, shaking through another pang of emotions. “I thought you were gone, and I can’t. I just can’t.” He let go of John and sat up.

His face was pink and blotchy, tears streaming down his face. He looked so broken.

“John, I love you.”


	16. At Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, I give the people what they want.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is short because this is all I want this chapter to be. I could’ve kept going, but I didn’t. I like where I ended because that’s all this chapter needs.

“John, I love you.”

Those words resonated in John’s mind a moment.

“When I thought I lost you, I knew the moment I saw you again I had to tell you. I can’t, I can’t keep pretending I don’t have feelings for you. Not anymore.” Sherlock sniffled and sighed, “I once told you that I was married to my work, and I was utterly wrong.”

Sherlock looked down a moment, readying himself before looking John in the eyes again. “I thought my work would always come first. Experimenting with Molly, hunting killers, helping the Yard, taunting Donovan and Anderson, competing with Lestrade to see who can quite smoking, tolerating my brother, and having tea with Mrs. Hudson. That was my life. And .....” He trailed off. Sherlock’s mouth opened and closed, searching for words until he found them. “That was my life and I was entirely unsatisfied with it. I wasn’t happy. I didn’t know what I was missing, until you moved in. You changed everything right under my nose. Everything had a new rush and excitement with you around. You made it more interesting, more fun, more tolerable at the least.” Sherlock let out a broken chuckle. “John, I could give up any part of my life, hell I could give up my work. But as long as you’re with me, I.” He took a deep breath, “God I hate how stupid I sound but with you I feel like I can do anything. You make the impossible seem possible. You make life, interesting. It was boring, and dull, and then you fixed it just by being there. I think that’s why I fell in love with you, so. Uhm. What we do is entirely up to you. We can pretend this never happened, if you want. We could do something more, if you want. But, I’m not married to my work. Not anymore. Because you’re much more important to me than chasing killers through the streets of London.”

John felt like he was floating. He felt like this was all a dream.

This wasn’t real, it wasn’t really happening. He didn’t deserve this. Not when he was lying to Sherlock about who he was.

But then again, he was already starting to tell Sherlock the truth. And Anthony was with Lydia for a while before he came clean.

This was his shot, and life really is too short. Especially after today.

It was then that John decided, he wasn’t going to one day regret that he didn’t take a chance with Sherlock. He couldn’t let it slip away.

“Although, I do enjoy being your best friend.” John paused, a bit bashful at this point, “I think I’d prefer to be your boyfriend.”

Sherlock gave a soft smile. “My god, I never thought I’d hear you say something like that.”

“I never thought I’d have to chance to.”

Sherlock nodded and grinned at John. “I’d like to be your boyfriend, as well.” He was a bit awkward and nervous, but mostly excited.

John looked away, blushing lightly and feeling like a giddy idiot. “Then I guess we’re boyfriends now.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure what to do. He had a blanket wrapped around himself since he was apparently ‘in shock’, so he snuck a hand out and shyly grabbed John’s.

John still had a dorky grin on his face as he interlaced their fingers.

They were so nervous and happy, holding hands and grinning. It was so adorable it could melt a heart of stone

Sherlock’s hand was the larger and warmer of the two. Thankfully John was used to being smaller than Sherlock, even though it pissed him off sometimes.

After giving Sherlock another check, the paramedic deemed that Sherlock was alright to leave.

After talking to Lestrade, Sherlock and John got a cab home.


	17. Sweater Weather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock navigate their unique relationship.
> 
> Sherlock picks up some cute habits, the dryer is still broken, and John visits Lestrade to make some things right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: It's a slow burn, but we gotta start the sexiness somewhere. So beware! From now on, sexiness can happen at any time.

John wished they had said something earlier. He wished that their relationship had begun sooner.

He never imagined he would see Sherlock like this.

Sherlock hadn’t changed much, but the ways he did change were baffling. He still would sit around in his mind palace. But about a month into their relationship, he would plant himself right in John’s lap before descending into his own mind.

John didn’t mind it, Sherlock wasn’t heavy to him. The problem was, Sherlock could stay in his palace for hours. Eventually, John would get hungry, have to pee, or worse, his own mind would wander.

When he was hungry or had to pee, the solution was simple. He would move Sherlock, take care of himself, grab Sherlock, and put him back on his lap again. It was his mind wandering that was the problem. Something about the warmth of Sherlock's body made it hard for his mind to stay pure. He felt like a dog in heat. He would distract himself with reading, TV, his blog, he would text his friends from work or Lestrade, he would try everything he could. But eventually, after a few hours, he would have to move Sherlock again and either take a cold shower or go to his room.

This usually happened around the 3-5 hour mark, which also happened to be the time when Sherlock would be nearing the end of his time in his mind. If Sherlock came to and saw he wasn't in John's lap, he would hunt John down, and demand to know why he was moved and how long he had been there.

John always used the excuse that he had to pee or something, because he was far too embarrassed to admit that he was actually getting horny and didn't want to pop a boner under Sherlock.

Sherlock knew John was lying, but he also knew John didn't like lying.

He knew it was a lie because the human bladder gets itself on a schedule. Like a child in school, you'll often find that you have to pee around the same time every day. Whenever you go to a new place, you often won't feel like you have to pee until your bladder can't hold back anymore, or, your bladder has recognized that there is a bathroom near and you can now relieve yourself.

John should have continued with his domestic pattern, always needing to go around the same time each day, but that hasn't been happening. It's different everyday and Sherlock is having some suspicions. Thankfully, he's also a determined and stubborn person, he has to know everything. He wasn't going to let John get around this.

The very next day, Sherlock placed himself on John's lap, readying to enter his mind palace. The room he went to this time was very different than his usual rooms. It was modeled after the control room of a spaceship from a movie he saw as a kid. In it, he was able to be in his mind while also aware of the sensations around his body. So while he normally wouldn't notice movement or noises, he can while he's in there. He started a timer in the room, wanting to stay in his mind palace for his usual amount of time.

Three hours in and John had watched a few reruns of an old 90s show, texted a couple friends, and read the paper. He had also gotten up once to get a snack. It was quite boring. He was considering leaving his mind palace, until another half hour in, he heard it.

"Christ, not again." John huffed quietly, shifting a bit under Sherlock.

Sherlock grew ever more curious. Is this what was causing John to always leave?

He noticed that John had began to bounce one of his legs, he was trying to stop thinking about something.

Was it a flashback of some sort?

His concern for John melted away when he felt something growing under his bum.

He struggled not to laugh, John was getting turned on.

This didn't usually happen, John's mind never wander off like this. Could it be because he was sitting in John's lap?

Sherlock decided that now was a good time to come out of his mind palace, just to inconvenience John.

Sherlock came to and lifted his head up, turning to John with a smirk. "So this is why you've been running off?"

John's cheeks flushed a dark red. "Please, let me up." The smirk on Sherlock's face and the deep baritone of his voice wasn't helping John's situation.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "Interesting, it seems my voice makes it worse."

John squirmed again, but because Sherlock was out of his mind palace and pressing more weight onto John, John was given a surprising bit of friction. John gave a sharp inhale through his nose. "Sh-Sherlock, alright. You're right, I got up all those times because I kept getting hard, now can I get up?"

"Why are you so embarrassed? It's perfectly normal."

John blushed again and looked away, "I just am."

Sherlock smirked, "You're embarrassed because you were caught fantasizing about me." He found himself strangely proud that he was the object of John’s fantasies.

"Yes, I was, I can't help it." John was saying anything to get Sherlock off his lap so he could take care of himself. But there was something about the warmth and pressure of Sherlock's body that made John prefer the idea of rutting against Sherlock like an animal.

"Sherlock, come on."

He let out a chuckle, "You could always move me, you don't have to wait till I let you up."

"I just feel that it would be rude to move you."

"You have no problem when I'm in my mind palace."

"This is different."

"It's different because you like it. You like this, me having my fun with you, you being helpless to me. Interesting." With that, Sherlock got up, John nearly sprinted to his room.

Sherlock couldn't help but to chuckle, and he was about to sit down, but he noticed something was wrong. He looked down.

For the first time in over a decade, Sherlock had a boner.

\- - - - -

They didn’t talk about what happened. John was too embarrassed and Sherlock knew that even discussing it would probably end up causing a repeat.

But it made John think.

Not about what happened.

But about his own life.

He and Sherlock are in a serious relationship, this is his life now, forever. He’s going to perform surgeries and hunt criminals until the day he dies.

It’s been over twenty years since he was out making terrible mistakes.

It’s time to start fixing it.

He’s already put away a hitman, but there’s a few more things that he needs to do.

He wrote it all down, and then got a cab to The Yard.

He entered and went directly to Lestrade’s office.

He found his friend doing paperwork that he obviously didn’t want to do.

When he noticed John standing there he sat up with a smile, happy to have a distraction from his work. “John, hey. What brings you down here?”

John entered, shutting the door behind him. He sat down at Lestrade’s desk and he seemed scared as hell.

Lestrade got really worried, really fast.

“You have to understand, when I was homeless, I was exposed to a lot of unpleasant things. A lot of illegal things. I guess, now, I want to fix it.”

He handed Lestrade a piece of paper, ten addresses written on it.

“Uhm. Those are, that’s where .....” he trailed off, words were getting difficult to find. “That’s where people are being held captive, waiting to be sold.”

“Sold to who?”

“The highest bidder. Whether it’s for sex, a slave, even some serial killers will buy people instead of hunting victims. The first four addresses are where they keep the women, warehouses because there tends to be more women taken. The next three are houses where they keep children, it’s easy to make it look like they’re your kids. The last three are where they keep the men, houses with basements, so you have somewhere to chain them up.”

Lestrade was in shock. “My god, I didn’t realize it was that bad.” He said, referring to John’s childhood.

John only shrugged, “It’s over now, it doesn’t matter.” He didn’t really want to talk about it with anyone besides Sherlock.

Lestrade nodded, “Thank you, John. This is gonna save a lot of people and prevent future kidnappings for a while. We take in enough people, offer them deals for information, we could shut down the whole thing.”

John gave a nod, “Keep me updated, alright?”

“Of course.”

John walked back to his flat instead of taking a cab. He needed some time to think.

He severely underestimated the walk, he didn’t get home for another hour, but he was so lost in his own mind that he didn’t even notice.

When he got back inside, Sherlock was waiting. “What took you so long? I thought you were just going to see Lestrade.”

“I walked back.”

Sherlock froze and stared at John a moment. “What happened?”

“Nothing. I just, got a few things off my chest.”

“You turned in more people?”

“Yea.”

“That’s good, John. It really is.” Sherlock wanted to make sure John knew he had done the right thing. “I’m happy for you.”

“Thank you.” John had mixed feelings. He was glad he turned those people in, but he was upset he hadn’t done it earlier.

\- - - - -

Sherlock was looking over some potential cases that various people had submitted on John’s blog, when he saw John walking up the stairs from putting up the laundry to dry.

“Sherlock, the dryer’s still broken.”

He forgot about that. Better call someone soon.

“I need to borrow a shirt again.” John said, once again out of clothes to wear to bed.

Sherlock smiled, “Alright, I trust you can find one on your own.”

John nodded, “Thank you.” He went to Sherlock’s room and searched through his pajamas for something to borrow.

He smirked to himself when he found a sweater.

John wasn’t stupid, he knew how he looked in Sherlock’s clothes.

He put it on and was happy with the results he got. Sleeves were too long, the hem went to his mid-thigh, but his muscles were shown off well.

He wasn’t one to fixate on revenge, but this is different. Sherlock deserves this.

He wore just the sweater and a pair of boxer-briefs, so they were almost completely hidden by the sweater.

John went back downstairs and struggled to keep a smirk off his face.

He sat down in his chair and he opened the newspaper, as if there was nothing wrong with what he was wearing.

Sherlock looked up and froze. He noticed John wasn’t looking at him, so he let his eyes wander. The gentle muscles of his body that normally weren’t so prominent in John’s looser clothing. Once his eyes drifted a bit lower, he was done for.

The sweater was long on him, but it shortened when he sat.

Sherlock’s eyes were fixated on the skin of John’s upper thigh. He let his eyes scan it, trying to memorize every detail. His eyes went higher on John’s leg, looking at the curve of his covered bum.

It was then that a new room was created in Sherlock’s mind palace. A room dedicated to all his dirty fantasies about John.

He looked up and saw John smirking at him. “You’re doing this on purpose.” Sherlock accused.

“Doing what?”

“Looking so scandalous!”

“Sherlock, I’m in a sweater.”

“And you have no trousers.”

“So? The sweater is long.”

“I can see your thighs!”

“What’s wrong with my thighs?”

“They’re distracting and you know it!”

“Are they? So sorry.”

He took a blanket and covered his legs, “Better?”

Sherlock bit his lip, “Well I wasn’t doing anything important. You didn’t have to cover them.” Like the lustful animal he was, he found himself going back on his own arguments just to see a bit of flesh again. He’d never felt so heathenish in his life.

John let out a laugh, “You’re cute when you’re desperate.”

Sherlock’s cheeks went pink.

John wanted to do more, but he decided he has tormented Sherlock enough for one night.

“Fair enough, I suppose I deserve this.”

John nodded, “I really should do more.”

“No, I’ve learned my lesson.”

John chuckled, “I didn’t think it would be that easy to get you so flustered.”

Sherlock decided he might as well explain, bjg was oddly embarrassed. “John, I haven’t ..... I haven’t even masturbated in a little over a decade.”

John looked at him, a bit shocked. “You’re a powder keg about to explode.” He grinned, “Oh, this’ll be fun.”

“I now see I’ve entered the gates of hell, and you are the devil.”

“Then you’re lucky you’re cute. I’ll keep you to myself, your own personal hell.”

“You’ll be the death of me.”

“And you’ll love every minute of it.”

“I will.” Sherlock agreed so easily. As if what John said was nothing short of fact.

John smirked, “You’ve had enough for tonight. But don’t expect me to always be so forgiving. Now that I know what makes you tick, I do want to have some fun.”

Sherlock’s gorgeous cheekbones went pink and his lips parted in a bit of shock. “I didn’t take you for a sadist.”

“Not a sadist, just a bit of a control freak. But since we’re on the subject, I can really do anything. It all depends on my mood.”

“And you’re in a teasing mood right now?”

“Yes.”

“Well next time warn me so I can run away.”

John let out a laugh, “I really like when you’re flustered.”

“Funny, I don’t.”

“I like how your composure starts to slip. You lose control of your own body.”

“I hate it.”

“That’s why I like it.” John had an air of arrogance around him that Sherlock had never seen before. As if John knew he was in complete control of the situation. “I get to take the genius and knock him down a peg, make you just a little bit more incoherent. It’s glorious.”

“Christ.” Sherlock said softly.

“You’re so easy too. It doesn’t even take much foreplay to get you going, does it? If I didn’t know any better I’d say I could get you off with my voice alone.”

“Goodnight.” Sherlock got up and began to walk away, prompting John to throw his head back laughing.

“Alright then, goodnight Sherlock. I love you. I love you so much, I’m gonna go wank with your sweater.”

Sherlock turned around and pointed a finger at John, accusingly. “John! Don’t you dare defile my clothing! That’s inappropriate.”

John nearly snorted. “Oh, you’re so cute!” He laughed out his words, “I’m gonna have fun ruining you.”

Make no mistake, John was laughing, but he meant what he said.

Sherlock knew that and it sent a shiver down his spine. “Ruin me?” He scoffed, “I’m not some innocent virgin, there’s nothing to ruin. It’s very likely that I’ve slept with more people than you.”

“You might not be a virgin, but be honest, when you were out there having sex, how often was it about you? How often were you getting off?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes as if the question was ridiculous, which it was. To him, the answer was obvious. “I was doing it for money, not pleasure.”

“And you haven’t masturbated in over a decade. I’ll wager that before then, you weren't waking that much anyways.”

“That’s correct.” Sherlock confirmed, wanting to see where this was going.

“Therefore, you haven’t been properly aquatinted with pleasure. Sherlock, I might not be ruining your innocence, but give me two minutes and I’ll have you writhing around and moaning. You wouldn’t be able to get a single word out, let alone think. It might not be some permanent change in you, but for a moment, I could wreck that brain of yours with my body. And that turns me on beyond belief. It would be beautiful.”

Sherlock found himself unable to think, his lips opened and closed but nothing came out. His cheeks were a dark red and he found himself frozen.

John smirked, proud of what he had done. He glanced down and saw Sherlock was stiff as a brick. “Mm, pretty big, aren’t you?”

Sherlock made a sudden sprint for the stairs. “I need to take a shower!” He shouted, rushing for the entrance to the bathroom.

He couldn’t believe John had so effortlessly turned his brain off.

But that made him even harder to know that John can make true on his promise. He really can ruin Sherlock.

No one else has ever done that to him.

Sherlock loved it.


	18. A Beautiful Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They get called to an early morning case, and in Sherlock’s opinion, John is hardly presentable.
> 
> Afterwards, John reminds Sherlock of his promise.

Sherlock woke up to the sound of his phone getting a message.

It was from Lestrade.

There was an address and the text read that there was a body that had been found. Multiple stab wounds to the chest and a missing kidney. Fourth one they’ve found in six months.

Sherlock grinned and sprang out of bed. He rushed to John’s room and bursted in. He shook John awake. “Get up! We have a case! Multiple stab wounds and a missing kidney!”

John let out a groan and slowly opened his eyes. “It’s early.” He mumbled into his pillow.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “So? Murder doesn’t sleep. We’re leaving in ten minutes.”

Sherlock went off to get ready while John slowly rolled out of bed. He brushed his teeth, put on deodorant, pulled some jeans on, and then spent three minutes trying to tie his shoes without falling back asleep.

John went to the kitchen and managed to eat a piece of toast in two bites.

By then, Sherlock was pulling him out the door without a jacket on.

John had severely underestimated the weather, but he figured it was fine since he was wearing Sherlock’s jumper. John also almost fell asleep again in the cab, but couldn’t since the crime scene wasn’t that far away.

They went into an alley where Lestrade and some other officers were standing by.

“Alright, this is the fourth victim in six months with stab wounds to the chest and a missing kidney. What I didn’t mention, was that the actual cause of death was blunt force trauma to the head. Everything else was postmortem. The killer seems to be targeting caucasian men in their early thirties.”

Sherlock and John examined the body, doing their normal routine.

“What about forensics?” John asked.

Lestrade sighed, “The second victim was the only one to get a DNA sample. He happened to have nails that were just long enough to scratch the hell out of the killer, got plenty of skin under his nails but the DNA didn’t match anything in our database.”

John gave a nod and looked down at the body, thinking.

Sherlock looked up and was about to say something, until he got a good look at John.

He hardly looked dressed for the day.

He was still wearing Sherlock’s sweater, which again, was cute and sexy. On top of that, Sherlock could tell John was cold from how his nipples poked through the top. The jeans John were wearing happened to be dark washed and were John’s “good pair”, because they complemented his body quite well. That, combined with the hug of the sweater extending to his mid-thigh, only accentuated what he had like a skin-tight dress. And if that wasn’t bad enough, his hair wasn’t fixed. It wasn’t that he had bed head, no, he had sex hair.

Sherlock looked at him with wide eyes, and when John noticed, he only looked confused in response.

Sherlock tried to ignore it as he deduced the killer based off what he and John saw, and what Lestrade could tell them about the previous murders.

But he also found himself deducing other people.

He saw a male cop standing by, occasionally glancing at John. He was curious about him in a sexual way, though he was married to a woman. John was making him question himself.

There were two female cops who weren’t even trying to hide the fact that they were checking John out.

A guy on the forensics team was stealing looks at John. It was very obvious, at least it was obvious to Sherlock, that he was thinking highly inappropriate things about John.

The guy’s coworker was also looking John up and down every once in a while.

Ex-military, surgeon, part-time detective, muscled and toned from still working out, looking sexy and adorable, sex hair, and sleepy eyes. John was a wet dream and he didn’t even seem aware of it.

Sherlock quickly finished deducing the killer and then he whipped his coat off, wrapping it around John.

John smiled a little. He appreciated the warmth, but he wasn’t sure why Sherlock had done it.

“There’s your killer Lestrade. Now, John and I must take our leave because a majority of the people here are undressing my boyfriend with their eyes.” Sherlock said with a sarcastic smile and Lestrade let out a laugh. It wasn’t a laugh of disbelief, he had noticed it too, he thought Sherlock’s bluntness was hilarious.

John’s face went from flattered to shocked and he dumbly followed Sherlock to the street where Sherlock caught a cab.

They climbed inside and John stared at the floor for a moment before turning to Sherlock, “Are you serious?”

“Probably, but what are you referring to specifically?”

“You said most of the people there were undressing me with their eyes.”

“Yes. I was very serious when I said that. You had a married man questioning his sexuality.”

John nearly snorted as he began chuckling. “Wow, that. That’s hilarious. Sorry if it upset you. I didn’t realize everyone thought that way of me.”

“Don’t apologize, you were completely oblivious. Though you couldn’t have grabbed a jacket, or fixed your hair, or put on something that wasn’t so tight?”

John grinned, “I had ten minutes to get ready. I had to prioritize.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Well you looked absolutely debauched.”

John’s eyes widened a bit and he let out a laugh. “Now you’re over exaggerating.”

“I’m not. You look like you just finished rolling around in bed with someone and couldn’t be bothered to get decent.”

John only shrugged, “Oh well. It’s their problem if I was so distracting. They’re wasting their time because I happen to be taken.”

Sherlock let a smile slip and he found himself wanting to wrap an arm around John. But instead, he played with the fabric of his dress pants. He still wasn’t entirely sure about physical contact.

John closed his eyes for the rest of the ride. When they got out, Sherlock paid and then they headed back upstairs.

John sleepily waddled back to his room, “Goodnight.”

“It’s seven.”

“Goodnight.”

Sherlock gave up, “Goodnight.” He found himself grinning at what a dork his boyfriend is.

He was getting excited and happy over absolutely nothing and he couldn’t stand it. John made him so happy that he almost didn’t know what to do with himself.

He wasn’t as tired as John. Instead, he found himself wondering about how to get back at John for his excessive teasing the day before.

If John wants war, Sherlock will give him war.

But instead of finding a solution, Sherlock’s thoughts were cut off by his phone ringing.

Mycroft.

Sherlock answered, “Yes?”

“Any updates on John?”

“Yes, actually. We’re dating now.”

Mycroft didn’t say anything for a moment, but then he could be heard softly cursing on the other line. A female voice soon said, “Pleasure doing business with you.”

“What is that?” Sherlock asked.

Mycroft sighed, “My assistant bet that you and John would get together sometime this year, I said it wouldn’t be until next year at least. You just couldn’t hold off, could you?”

“No. I couldn’t.”

Mycroft paused a moment, “What happened?”

Sherlock went into an abridged version of his case with William Jameson and being sort of kidnapped.

Sherlock could practically hear the frown in Mycroft’s voice. “My god, Sherlock. Even though you are the biggest twat I’ve ever met, don’t go around hurting yourself.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“Running in without backup! Without John! Why?”

“Because he had the gas. He’s planned his attacks for years, he was very prepared for police intervention.”

“Better you than them.” Mycroft recognized Sherlock’s line of thinking. “They wouldn’t be able to fight it off like you could.”

“I was an unexpected variable. I forced him to have to improvise.”

“Good tactic. And it finally brought you and John together.”

“Was everyone aware of our feelings besides us?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock frowned a bit, feeling stupid and oblivious.

The conversation continued on. Asking about the other’s work, they kept it short, professional, and brief.

Sherlock hung up and laid down on the couch, closing his eyes. Maybe some sleep would do him some good.

John was already knocked out. He fell asleep under his duvet with Sherlock’s coat still wrapped around him.

One would be surprised at how outside stimuli can effect a person’s dream. Of course, the stimuli has so be unusual, strong, and persistent. So the neighborhood dog that barks every night isn’t going to have an effect because that’s something you get used to and learn to filter out.

But the strong and persistent scent of your significant other can greatly effect your dreams.

John was dreaming that he and Sherlock were on a case. It was so ordinary that it was the kind of dream one wakes up from and isn’t sure if it was a dream or something that really happened.

Sherlock is almost always aware of when he’s dreaming. But he’s terrible at lucid dreaming. He prefers to watch what his brain comes up with.

Usually, he’s sitting somewhere in nature, surrounded by the sights and sounds.

Yet he loves living in the city.

He’s alright with either extreme, but the suburbs would be unbearable.

Tonight, he was in a cool forest. He was laying on the grass right at the edge.

It was pretty relaxing.

He stared up into a sky full of stars, he felt at peace, and calm. His mind was completely silent. This was the only place where he didn’t want to think and analyze, simply because he didn’t have to.

It was beautiful.

A few hours later, they were both awake.

Sitting together in the living room, it felt like a dream.

“John?”

“Yes?”

“How are you?”

John was a bit confused by the question, but decided to humor Sherlock. “I’m fine, how are you?”

“No, really. A few days ago, you turned people in. Something I imagine you wouldn’t have done a year ago. It isn’t that you’ve changed, but, you’ve become less afraid.”

John nodded, “I have. I’m not really afraid anymore. Not of them, at least. We have a mutual respect. I won’t rat out anyone from the gang and they don’t rat me out.”

“I’m certain that in exchange for information, Lestrade won’t arrest you. It could be argued that all the lives you’ve saved in the hospital, all the killers you’ve caught, and your years in the military have made up for it. Like community service. And you were a child when it all happened.”

“Sherlock, I’m not worried about the crimes I committed while I was in the gang.”

“After?”

“No.” John’s voice was significantly softer. He didn’t want to have the conversation.

“It’s alright, John. You don’t have to tell me.”

“But I do! Or, at the very least, I should. You deserve to know.”

“John. I can wait. Focus on you. You need to cope. Then you can tell me your story.”

John gave a nod, he knew Sherlock was right. He wished it were easier than this. He wished that he could have lived a cookie-cutter life and that he wasn’t as fucked as he is. But life just didn’t turn out that way.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

“You’re right. You’re completely right. I really need to work on myself.” John gave him a smile, “But I still remember my promise. I promised two months, and that was a month ago. I don’t break promises.”

“John, it’s really okay.”

“Nope. A month.”

Sherlock was ecstatic, but he didn’t want to show it. “Fine, a month.”

John thought a moment, writing had always been the best way that he got through his feelings. So he figured that maybe he should write everything down.

Not on his blog, but on a pen and paper. That way he can destroy it if he needs to.

John got up and went over to his desk, he looked through his drawer and found a notepad and a pencil.

He looked at the page for a moment, not sure where to start. He decided to start at the beginning.

‘My name is John Hamish Watson, and I was born in a city called ..... ‘

And so on.


	19. Life Moves On, Let Your Heart Move With It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John recounts his sins and Sherlock is there for him.

Letting himself get trapped in the past was the worst thing John has ever done to himself.

When he was a kid, John had what felt like the opposite of PTSD. Instead of anxiety and triggers, he didn’t feel anything. It was as if he was immune to the emotional effects of his actions.

But now that he was an adult, and he understood everything that happened, it all hit him like a freight train.

Imagine being five years old and you accidentally step on a flower, then a week later, you’re told that stepping on flowers kills them. That’s about how he felt now. He felt like an idiot, like he should have known.

It took him fifty minutes of writing and rewriting a summary of his backstory before he would get on with it.

He didn’t want to face it, it was so hard to face.

It was like slaughtering a pig and then spending the night in the slaughterhouse with it’s corpse. It might not have meant that much in the moment, but the more you sit with it, the worse it becomes. It was almost like he and been better off ignoring it. But he knew it wasn’t true.

When you break a bone, it heals itself to be stronger. That’s also how building muscle works. When you work out your muscles get little tears in them, which is why you feel sore, and then they heal and become bigger. In that sense, John felt he was better off healing than to have never been broken in the first place.

There was also a certain brutality to what he wrote, still somehow mixed with the innocence of what he called a childhood.

John blinked a few times as he looked down at the paper. He had filled three sheets, front and back, and he was only to age twelve of eighteen. This made him frown as he realized he was going into a lot of detail. Maybe that wasn’t a bad thing. Maybe he should just get it all out now. It might make it easier when he has to tell Sherlock.

He wrote a little more and that’s when he noticed a few drops of water of the paper. He reached up and wiped his eyes.

That’s when Sherlock looked over at him and saw he was crying. He knew what John was doing, he also thought it was a good thing, but it was making him realize that John really might not be as innocent as he thought.

Of course he doesn’t think John is a monster, but you don’t have to be one to do terrible things. You can be normal, with the same feelings and emotions as everyone else, you can be perfectly capable of empathy, but under the right circumstances even the most righteous person is capable of terrible things.

Sherlock didn’t know what to do. He wasn’t sure if he was suppose to comfort John or leave him alone.

Humans are social creatures. Even though some claim to prefer isolation in times of sadness, John wasn’t that kind of person.

So, Sherlock stood up and squeezed by John in his chair.

John let out a soft laugh in response. “You usually aren’t so physical.”

Sherlock shrugged, “Love changes people.” He hesitated before confessing, “I never minded closeness so long as it was with you. You were always different.”

John looked up at Sherlock and his expression was unreadable for a moment. “Do you think people can change, Sherlock? Change completely. Because who I was before, is the opposite of who I am now. But sometimes ..... sometimes I think back, and I don’t feel bad for the things I did. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I feel like I could do it again, but I don’t want to.”

“You were desensitized, John. It happens all the time, especially in soldiers. But even to doctors. The sight of blood makes you sick, but after so many surgeries, it doesn’t bother you anymore. The same applies to murder and violence. You see it so often that you stop feeling effected by it. As for committing those crimes again, you probably could, but I know that you would look for any other option first. Being able to do something and actually wanting to do it, are two very different things. It’s the difference between a dog, arsenic, and Mycroft. All three could kill me, but Mycroft is the only one of those with a desire to do so.”

John let a smile slip at Sherlock’s jab at his brother. “You’re terrible.” John tilted his head slightly, “But you’re also right. I don’t want to do it again.”

_‘But you have to.’_

The words rang in his head, a familiar voice. The voice that’s said those words to him a hundred times. The voice he had been fighting to rid himself of. The voice that he loathed. The voice made him sick and angry. He didn’t even realize he was breathing faster until he felt a pain in his chest, as if he wasn’t getting enough air in, he felt like he was suffocating. He shifted a bit and tried to calm himself down, but his head began to ache and he had to close his eyes. It was the kind of headache he typically only experienced from strong emotions or stress. He covered his face and hunched over as he remembered everything he had done.

“I didn’t have a choice! He made me do it! He was gonna kill Harry if I didn’t do it!” John surprised himself at his own outburst. He didn’t really care until he realized Sherlock was still there. He froze, it felt like someone has thrown cold water onto him, and everything seemed to stop.

Sherlock’s calm smile dropped and he found himself wrapping his arms around John. “It’s alright. You had to. You didn’t have a choice.” He affirmed John’s belief to help calm him down. There was never any doubt in Sherlock’s mind that John has PTSD. But now he knew, it didn’t have much to do with the war. It was older than that.

John shivered at the sudden warmth around his body. He shifted and curled into Sherlock’s torso.

Sherlock kept him close but his mind began reeling. He noticed how John said “he” made him and that “he” was going to kill Harry. If it was a gang effort then he would of said “they”. So who was “he” and what did he make John do?

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock in return. Being held wasn’t something he was used to. But Sherlock made him crave all the lovey-dovey crap that he had never been interested in before.

Sherlock also wasn’t used to having arms around him. But John’s strong and secure ones made him want to melt. Of course he refused, because that would be embarrassing. But he wanted to.

“Sorry. I’m sorry. I don’t know where that came from.” John said, having never done that before.

Sherlock took a deep breath, “It’s because you’re finally facing it. Everything you kept locked away. You’re setting it free and you don’t know how to deal with it. You need to get it out.”

John nodded, “Yea. Yea.” He mumbled. He knew he should go back to writing everything, but he wanted to stay with Sherlock for just a bit longer.

Neither of them moved until five hours later. That’s because they fell asleep and when John woke up he was hungry and needed to pee.

They got takeaway for dinner and John finished writing.

He spent the night staring into the darkness of his room. He thought.

He replayed scenes in his head, reliving what happened over and over again. He wondered about how things would of gone if he made different choices.

He ended up falling asleep at five in the morning, his body sat up and slumped against the wall.

He woke up two hours later, he had to go to work. He was completely stupefied and felt like he was going to die.

He made the terrible decision of buying two five hour energies to get through work. He threw one back during his commute and he found himself running on pure adrenaline. Later, he took the second when his energy started to dip. He was normally against energy drinks, but he needed this.

He came home and was still high on adrenaline. Sherlock looked him over once and immediately knew what was going on. “What kind of drugs did you take?” He was mostly sarcastic.

“Five Hour Energy.”

“Christ, you’re gonna crash soon.”

“No, I took two.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened in surprise. “Then you’ll crash even harder. How much sleep did you get?”

“Almost two hours.”

“You were up all night, thinking, weren’t you?”

“Yea.”

John almost wanted to laugh at how backwards the conversation was.

“I’m gonna crash so fucking hard.” He said with a grin, “It’s gonna suck.” He seemed strangely happy about it. And he was. He couldn’t wait to get more sleep.

Sherlock nodded, “Yes, it will. Better get comfy because you’ll be falling asleep soon.”

John scoffed and plopped down beside Sherlock. “I hope I fall asleep on you. Then maybe you’ll see how I feel.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “You’re still upset that you can’t control yourself while I’m on your lap? Honestly John, it’s nothing to be ashamed of.” A small smirk graced his face. “Plenty of men can’t keep it down.”

John glowered in abject abashment. “I should’ve wanked with your jumper.”

“John, don’t defile my clothing!” His voice was stern, as if he were warning John, as if he were threatening John.

“I wish I had.”

“Do that and I’ll wank in your bed.”

He cracked a smile. “I wouldn’t be upset about that at all. Sherlock, you aren’t very good at threats.”

“It isn’t that I’m bad at threats, it’s that I can’t think of anything you wouldn’t like.”

“You make me sound like a slut.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as if he couldn’t believe John had said that. “Three Continents Watson.” His voice was void of any emotion.

“Okay, I used to be a little bit of a slut.” John relented, already feeling a bit tired.

Sherlock was quiet a moment before nearly snorting from his own sudden laughter. He’d realized something, “I do believe I’m going about this all wrong. If you defile my clothes, I’ll never sit on your lap again.”

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and pulled him close. “You’re clothes are safe, for now.” He refused to lose any ounce of the physical contact he had earned from Sherlock.

Sherlock gave a smile and wrapped an arm around John. They stayed like that and talked a while, until two hours later, John started crashing.

He was struggling to keep his eyes open and he kept zoning out.

Eventually, John became incoherent entirely and he had his face pressed to Sherlock’s side, moaning in response to his words.

“Are you regretting your lack of sleep?”

John couldn’t even nod, he just let out a moan. And it wasn’t a noise for yes or no, it was just a moan.

It encouraged Sherlock to keep prompting John to talk. “Have a good day at work?”

“Mmmmm!”

“Work on any surgeries?”

“Mmmm.”

Sherlock smirked at the sweet music that only he got to hear from John. It was throaty and raw. “You sound absolutely ravishing when you moan.”

This shocked John into sitting up. His eyes were closed and he spoke in a slurred voice, “You’re just trying to hear sex noises! That’s dirty. I’m gonna get your sweater and you’re gonna pay.”

“But then I won’t sit in your lap anymore.” He reminded with a sly smirk, as if he had just won something.

John seemed very disappointed at that and it shut him up.

This time he laid his upper half on Sherlock’s lap, face-down, sprawled out on Sherlock and the sofa. He was about to fall asleep any second.

Of course Sherlock didn’t mind this, he actually thought it was kind of cute. In fact, it was truly adorable, until Sherlock’s eyes wandered down to John’s bum.

He hadn’t meant for it to happen, but it did. He bit his lip and tried to look away, but he couldn’t. It was just right there, in his face, just beside his thigh. He stared at it a while, taking note of it’s composition. It wasn’t exactly small or large, average in it’s own right. But Sherlock could tell that it was mostly muscles. He really wasn’t opposed to an arse that was mostly muscle or mostly fat, he had no preference. He only seemed to favor everything about John.

He took a deep breath and realized he was trapped. He couldn’t move John and go take care of himself if he needed to. He wanted to think of something else, but once his brain focuses on something, he had a hard time changing it.

He found himself wanting to touch it, grab it, squeeze it. He just wanted to touch it in any way he could. He was hit with the sudden realization that he wanted to do absolutely sordid things to that arse. Things he’s never really wanted to do before.

He wanted John to sit on his lap, have him pressed against Sherlock.

Sherlock’s eyes nearly rolled back at the buzz of pleasure between his legs. One thing he hated was how thinking of pleasure can sometimes trick the body into feeling pleasure.

He bit his lower lip and he closed his eyes, but that left him with his imagination, and it was still fantasizing about John’s weight and warmth on his lap. Unfortunately, it wasn’t just a fantasy and John was asleep on him.

He took a deep breath and tried to focus on something else to try and make the slightly hardened appendage go down.

He thought about the cases, which led him to think about John. He thought about food, then how John says he needs to eat more, and suddenly he’s just thinking about John. He thought about the broken dryer, and all hell breaks loose as his mind floods with John’s teasing. 

Maybe if he moved John really slowly, he wouldn’t wake up. Besides, he only slept two hours.

Sherlock was lucky. He managed to get John scooped up into his arms without waking him. He quickly speed-walked into John’s room and laid him down before sprinting into the shower.

He made it cold and stepped in, hating every second of it. So he warmed it up a little. Then a little more, a little more, and he kept going until the entire purpose of the shower was defeated.

He used that to his advantage, he was nice and warm, and blast of cold water should take care of him.

He turned the hot water off and let out an undignified squeak at the cold water. He wrapped his arms around himself and he was soon flaccid.

He turned the water off and he quickly dried off, he threw on his pajama bottoms and a sheet.

He then went back to check on John, then went into the couch and laid back, accidentally falling asleep as well.

\- - - - -

John woke up the next morning and he stumbled into the bathroom to get ready for the day. It was then that he realized he had been moved. He smiled at this.

After getting dressed and ready, he headed to the kitchen but saw Sherlock sleeping on the couch. He saw the man was in bottoms and wrapped in a sheet, but that wasn’t the most eye-catching thing.

His sheet had fallen off his chest.

Sherlock was covered in more scars than John had imagined.

He took a few steps closer and he saw the majority of the scars had become small, slightly raised, and white. But there’s were some red and pink marks that were hard to ignore, places where the skin was tight and almost suck inward in a line. Tanned patches from old burns, places where hair had stopped growing from how deep the scars went, and raised marks from where Sherlock tried to stitch himself up. Sherlock endured literal torture. He wished he could have saved Sherlock.

Another surprising feature was the new muscles he didn’t know were there. They were small, but defined. It was actually sort of alluring.

John smiled to himself and he went to make a small breakfast, but not before covering Sherlock’s torso with the sheet. Even though he wanted to ogle the man some more, not because of the scars, but because Sherlock is a well-sculpted man.


	20. A Soldier in An Imaginary War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John’s finally ready. He lays out the hard truths about his childhood. But there’s one question he still refuses to answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING : Mentions of violence and drugs.

John was looking at Sherlock with eyes full of an unspeakable sadness and heavy regret.

“Sherlock, I want to tell you about my time in London.”

Sherlock gave a nod, sitting up and giving John his full attention. He’s been waiting for months to finally know John, and he was much more excited than he let on.

John opened his mouth and didn’t know what to do for a moment. He closed it and took a deep breath. He’s never said any of this out loud before. He didn’t know how to go about it. Most of all, he was scared that by confessing, he would ruin everything he had with Sherlock.

He trusted Sherlock a great deal. But he knew that sometimes, just one story about the past can change someone’s opinion about you. He didn’t want that to happen today.

“When Harry left the gang, I needed to make myself more prominent so I could get protection for her. I didn’t want her taken, she was nine and I was seven. She was getting close to puberty, harder to hide that she’s a girl. So I took on a bigger role.”

This was one of the hardest things to confess because of how much he hated it. Especially since he knew Sherlock’s story.

“I became a dealer.” He felt like he was going to be sick. “Everyday before school, I would get the day’s product from my guy, I would go to school, then I would go to my spot and I would sell. That’s uh. That’s when the incident happened.” He blinked a few times and shook his head, backtracking as he realized he neglected to mention something. “I sold everything, by the way. Cocaine was big, smokable heroin just hit the markets, hemp wasn’t taken too seriously yet, ecstasy hadn’t killed anyone yet, business was always good.”

All those years ago, when he found out Sherlock used to have a drug problem, he tore himself a new one.

“The thing about crackheads ..... they’ll do anything for a fix. Uhm.” He felt weird talking about what Sherlock once was. “One of them attacked me. Grown man. He threw me. He didn’t have the money and I wasn’t feeling charitable, so he picked me up and he threw me ‘cross the fucking street. I was lucky I didn’t get injured. I sprinted back to my guy and I told him what happened. So ..... “ John laughed, though he wasn’t even sure why. “So my guy puts a pistol in my tiny hand and says it’s time for target practice. He taught me to use a gun, let me keep the pistol, and I got good. I became one of the only dealers who never got threatened or fucked with by customers, because, because I .....” He trailed off and gave a sheepish smile to hide his guilt and shame. “I gained a reputation for never missing.”

He quickly snapped his head up to look at Sherlock. “I never killed anyone! I just, I just hurt them. But I didn’t kill.” He wanted to make that very clear. “I remember the first person I shot, it was a different man. He kept threatening me and he wouldn’t back off, so I pulled out the pistol and I told him to leave. He thought I was bluffing about shooting him. But I did.”

John tilted his head as if he was talking about something that greatly interested him. “At first he just looked surprised. He stared at me for a few seconds. He didn’t scream when he was hit, just let out all the air in his lungs and looked shocked. Probably cause he got his bloody kneecap taken out by a fucking kid. Then the shock wore off and he started screaming. I didn’t know what to do, and the blood, it was coming out so fast. Sirens were getting close and I just, I-I ran. Never saw him again. He wasn’t the last person I shot.” He let out a soft sigh, but didn’t seem to feel guilty. “After a few months, it took less and less to make me willing to shoot someone. So less and less people would try to provoke me. My guy said he saw potential in me. Said he wanted me trained up so I could lead my own dealers. I was a dumb kid, so of course I was interested. Didn’t get to start till I was eight due to the bronchitis.”

John frowned, biting his bottom lip hard. This part was difficult. Not because of shame or guilt, but because of the weight of what he went through. “H-His. His name was Brutus. That obviously wasn’t his real name, but I didn’t really know or care. He was just Brutus. Usually, he was the person who showed up at your house if you were falling out of line. But I guess he was also a trainer, of sorts, I don’t really know. It only took two weeks before I ..... b-before ..... before I was like them.” He didn’t want to say that he broke, he didn’t break, he just changed. That’s how he saw it.

He didn’t know how to word what happened, it was still a blur to him. “I was locked in a dog cage for the first week. The cage was kept in a little back room, it was dark. I wasn’t given any food, just water. Then he took me out and gave me a pillowcase full of rocks. He brought me to a back alley where a bunch of strays were hanging out. He said for every animal I hit, I get a cracker.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and his heart cracked. He could already tell where this was going. He knew that once it fully sank in, he’d be furious at Brutus, but for now, he was only sad for John.

He stared hard at the ground, angry and hurt. “I was so hungry. Fuck! I was just so hungry, Sherlock.” He eyes went from being full is strong emotions, to completely dull. “I just kept throwing and throwing and throwing ..... I heard crunching. I was breaking their bones. I was killing them, just slowly.” He slowly brought his hands to hold his face, he was fighting the urge to cover his ears. He hated the noises. “I was breaking their bones, and they couldn’t run away, and they were so loud! Meowing, whimpering, whining, crying out, but I was so hungry I didn’t care!” His voice occasionally cracked as he held back his own sobs. “I killed them. Three birds, seven cats, and four dogs. I killed them over the course of the day. When I started killing one, the others would run. I had to wait for other animals to come along. He said I did good. That I was patient and he liked that I took my time. I didn’t _mean_ to take my time.” John shook his head. “He said that I was gonna have to keep doing it, u-until I learned not to cry.”

Sherlock couldn’t even think. What Brutus did to John was brainwashing and desensitizing. It sounded like John was being trained as a soldier and not just a kid in a gang. It was sick and disgusting. He felt it in the pit of his stomach, a rage was growing. His jaw ached with the desire to drop and let out an angry cry.

“I spent the next three days mutilating animals in exchange for food. He was right. After the second day, I stopped crying. I didn’t care anymore. I just wanted food. Then, on the last day, he takes me out of the cage and says he has one last challenge for me. He says he knows I’m willing to shoot a man, but that I have to be willing to do other things too. So he brings me out to the alley, and the man who attacked me is there. He’s laying on the ground, tied up. Brutus gives me a rock, and he tells me to kill him with it.”

Sherlock didn’t believe for a second that John was going to say he killed the man. He had too much faith in him.

John started shaking his head, he was fighting a breakdown. “I asked him for a faster weapon, he said no. I was willing to do it. I just didn’t want to take my time. He said I had to learn to do it with almost nothing so I wouldn’t hesitate when it’s easier. I said no. I didn’t want to kill him. He was looking right up at me, and I know he recognized me. He looked so scared. He looked terrified. I didn’t want to kill him because he’s human. It’s different! Until Brutus said he would kill Harry if I didn’t! He said that, that Harry was making a fine young woman, that he couldn’t wait for the years to come, told me about how pretty she is, that he just might have to keep her depending on how good she was. He was gonna hurt her, I couldn’t take that chance! So I did it! I started beating him with the rock! I knelt down beside him and I just kept hitting him in the head with it! I was crying the whole time. I felt so sick! And he kept ..... he kept screaming! His mouth was taped shut but I could hear his screams clear as day and, and I-I wanted him to just shut up! He was making it so hard! God, I wanted him to be quiet! I wanted him to stop! I didn’t want to kill anyone!”

Now John’s hands drifted back to cover his ears, the noises still haunted him. “Brutus stopped me. Thank god, he stopped me. He said that I didn’t need to kill him, but that he has to make sure that I would be willing to murder in the most brutal way possible.” John closed his eyes. “The noises, they were always the worst. They would give me migraines. I’m not sure when I stopped feeling bad about being violent, or when I stopped being bothered by the noise. But now it hurts my head.”

It was then that Sherlock decided he was going to hunt Brutus down like a dog and tear him apart.

John’s lower lip trembled, “He let me go after that. After I was brought down to their level. I had to protect Harry. I know what can happen to women living on the streets and I wasn’t gonna let Harry end up like them. So, I went back to her. She asked how it went ..... I never told her what really happened. I knew that if I did, it would hurt her. I can’t let her know the truth. It’s my sin to bear, and if I had told her then she wouldn’t’ve let me continue.”

John closed his eyes and took some deep breaths. Strangely, he did feel a bit better. There was still the anxiety and fear that weighed on him. But it was as if something much heavier, laying in the pit of his soul, had gone away.

He calmed himself down, and continued to tell his story. “I was still young, so my training wasn’t over. But, it was nothing like before. Target practice with guns, knives, rocks. Tactical skills in case another group tried to mess with us. Even some business skills, if you can call it that. Things like who to give discounts to, who I can scam out of more money, and how to tell if someone’s a cop. I was also taught what to do if someone went out of line, how to defend myself, how to intimidate, things like that. I shadowed people on the job, learned by watching. I was in charge of five younger boys by the time I was twelve.”

He was only twelve. Sherlock was in a state of shock.

John thought for a moment, deciding maybe now was a good time to throw in the detail, “Remember a few months ago, when we played Never Have I Ever at the bar, and I said I kept up a lie for over a year? This was it. From the time I was put in training until I was eighteen, I went by the pseudonym of Ty. Everyone thought it was short for Tyler and that it must be my real name. I learned to answer to both and I didn’t correct anyone. It was safer that way.” John then made a face as if he had just remembered something. “That’s also when me and Harry got off the streets.” He said with a small smile. “She quit her job sweeping the barbershop floor and started working as a cashier at a little shop. We both got a higher pay and we could afford a flat. It was a shabby little one. Don’t ask, don’t tell kind of deal. As long as you paid the bill each month, the owners turned a blind eye to anything shady going on.”

“We both fell into a new routine.” His smile faded. The happy moment was over. His pride in their getting a flat was diminished by the weight of how he helped pay for it. “We would wake up early, get dressed, Harry would make breakfast, and I would go get the day’s product. I would set a quota, the boys would come get their share for the day, we would all go to school, and then we went to work. Harry to the shop, the boys to sell, and I would patrol. I would make sure everyone stayed in line, was safe, that nobody was pricing it wrong, stuff like that. That’s when I started learning other languages, there were kids from different backgrounds that I was in charge of. I wanted to be sure they understood me very clearly, and it was useful to be able to threaten them in their own languages.”

John wrapped him arms around himself, looking up at Sherlock. “I don’t know if it was because of my training, or because I was so young, but I was a lot more brutal than most. I was good at what I did. I wasn’t afraid to hurt people anymore. If someone messed up I would use them for target practice with rocks, fire blanks with the gun pressed right to their temples, kick and beat them. I did everything besides kill them, but I still didn’t show mercy. Not killing them, that wasn’t always mercy. If someone kept messing up, I reported them to higher ups. I went through dealers day after day for the first few weeks, but in the end, the ones that stayed were hardened and didn’t mess up anymore. We got good enough that by the time I was fifteen, I had moved up even higher. I was muscle. Instead of early mornings, I had late nights. I was sent to deal with the people who didn’t stay in line. Language skills were useful because we had people we dealt with from all over. If a supplier needed to be reminded that they need us and we don’t need them, I was one of the ones sent out to remind them. I would beat people up, threaten to kill, set things on fire, trash the place. I hurt people. If someone owed us money, I was sent to kick their ass. If someone was threatening us, I was sent to show them that we can hurt them more than they could ever hurt us.”

John paused a moment, getting a bit lost in his own memories. His voice and eyes became dull. It was as if he was experiencing it all over again. “I would experiment.” He confessed in a small voice. “See just how much force it took to break each bone in the human body with my bare hands.” John expression completely changed from grim to casual, as if it didn’t matter. “Snapping people’s collarbones was my signiture move. It feels like breaking chalk. It only takes three kilograms of force to break it. Ankles and fingers are easy too. All it takes is an unnatural roll to dislocate an ankle, and fingers just take a little twist.” He mimicked how he would break people’s bones with his hands as he described it. “Every ounce of my training and my own anger came out in those moments. I didn’t care. Screams, tears, begging, the sounds of breaking bones, somewhere along the line it all stopped meaning anything to me. I was doing my job and it didn’t feel like anything more than that. It didn’t matter. People would look me in my eyes, children to elders, men and women, and they would beg me to stop. But I forgot how to care. I forgot how to feel bad for it. I don’t know when or why, but one day, my brain stopped making me feel remorse. It was just ..... whatever. I wasn’t like the others who needed drugs and alcohol so they wouldn’t feel bad about what they did. Ever since Brutus, I didn’t feel bad about anything anymore. I forgot how to feel.”

After pausing a moment, John actually had the gall to smile. “My favorite tactic, was showing up at people’s houses. I would show up around town, where the family of the target happened to be, and I would find my way in and befriend them. Then one day, I show up at the home of the target and I would be welcomed like family. The target would get home, see me, and they would be so scared. They’d be terrified because that’s when they understood that they were dealing with someone who knew how to manipulate people, and who was very good at doing it. They understood that I wasn’t just brawn, I had the brains too. It would make them paranoid. They would stop trusting their own families. I took their peace of mind away from them. The last light in the darkness of our lives, I touched with a sinful hand. They always see their homes as a bubble, free of the wickedness of their other life. I would bring in the otherness and taint the atmosphere of their bubble until they suffocated. They never step out of line after that.”

John looked over into a corner, biting his lip, weighting his options. Now was his chance, so he decided to spare no detail. “The ones with daughters I hit the hardest. I would always remember three things about the daughters, three beautiful things, and I would let the target know how I felt about it. How gorgeous their little angel was. It was fucked up. But it worked on me with Brutus, so I figured it wasn’t half bad as a tactic. Even targets without daughters, I would do the same with their wife. I would tell them three beautiful things, and watch the resolve in their eyes crumble to pieces. Hell, I did it with sons, husbands, boy toys, anyone I could get. I also got a lot more comfortable with my gun. It was insane. I would watch people think they’re calling my bluff, and then I would watch confidence turn to fear, and fear into acceptance when they realized I wasn’t joking. Their somber eyes pissed me off.”

John stopped a moment, he wasn’t sure where to go from there. So he just took up his next step in progression. “When I was seventeen, everything changed. There was this annoying beggar we employed. He would always give his friends discounts and would get high off his own supply. I was sent to get him to stop because he was getting himself in debt with us. I showed up at his flat, yelled at him, threatened him, trashed the place, almost broke his fingers, stabbed his leg with a fork, knocked him unconscious so he would stop crying, etcetera. I left and I find out it wasn’t enough. He still hadn’t stopped and his debt was in the thousands. So I said fuck it and I told the higher ups. Later, I found out they killed him.”

He sat back in his chair and stared out the window. “That was my one rule. My one rule was that I wasn’t going to kill people. No matter what, I always managed to follow it. And then, someone ends up dead because of me.” He shook his head, finally showing an expression other than the casual one he’d kept up. He looked troubled, and maybe, a bit disappointed. “That’s when I knew that the next dead body was gonna be there because I killed them myself. That’s when I stopped. I had too.” He finally looked over at Sherlock. “The way I got out, was because I had earned my stripes, in a way. While I was there, I was brutal, I didn’t care, I was worse than most of the grown men. I rose through the ranks and I only got more callous. I proved myself. So, it was almost like retirement. They thought it was funny that I wanted to go to uni, but they let me. I was lucky enough to get a good scholarship and when I was eighteen, I was off. I enlisted in the army and I balanced both. I was a military student. I remember when I was in the military, most people were surprised by how hardened I already was, but nobody ever questioned it. So, I became an army surgeon, got shot, discharged, and now I’m a regular surgeon who also happens to solve crimes with the world’s only consulting detective.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, he only stared at John.

“If you never want to see me again, I understand. I’ll leave if you want me to.” John said softly. He felt better now that he’s told someone his story, but he also felt a heartbreak settle in.

Strange. Recounting his sins and knowing what he had done, hardly made him feel a thing. He didn’t act guilty, he didn’t pretend to feel remorse when he didn’t. But the thought of losing Sherlock made him feel a bit of regret.

Sherlock shook his head. “You aren’t him anymore.”

John closed his eyes and stayed silent.

“You were forced to torture animals, and then beat a man almost to death. Then you started brutalizing and threatening people. It became your job. You got good at it. You shot people. Someone ended up dead because of you, and that’s what made you quit. But in the army, you certainly killed people. What’s the difference?”

John thought a moment. “I don’t really know. It just was. I wasn’t just trying to kill them, they were also trying to kill me. They knew what they were doing and they knew what they were getting themselves in to. They were grown, but the guy who was killed because of me, he was fourteen. He was a kid. So yes, it’s different. Very different.”

Sherlock nodded, that was all he needed to know.

He felt a rage inside of him that he had never felt before. Those men had taken John’s childhood and turned him into a soldier for an imaginary war. Then he goes into a real war and finds out it isn’t half as bad as the one he grew up in.

Brutus. Sherlock knew then and there he wasn’t going to rest until Brutus paid for what he’d done.

Sherlock found himself with one last question, “Where are you from?”

John felt his heartbeat change, it was slow and pounding in his ears.“I’d rather not talk about my hometown. Not yet.”

His hometown, where it all started.

If things had gone differently there, John would never have ended up in a gang. No wonder he harbored so much resentment towards it.

“John, I’m not upset. I don’t hate you and I don’t blame you. You did it to protect Harry and you were brainwashed. Now you save people, as a surgeon and by hunting down killers.” Sherlock paused a moment, letting John process his words. “Thank you, John. Thank you for telling me. I won’t repeat it to anyone else.”

“I hurt so many people. Almost daily, for years.” His eyes were slightly narrowed at he stared at the ground, he was almost angry, but mostly he was disappointed in himself.

“But you’ve saved even more. You’ve saved tens of thousands of people, and hurt a couple thousand at the absolute most. One person ended up dead. But you had nothing to do with other people making the choice to kill somebody. You can’t blame yourself for it, it’s illogical.”

John looked Sherlock in his eyes. He seemed momentarily afraid. “You ..... you aren’t upset that I sold?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, though it was a bit touchy, he didn’t think John was going to be so worried about that. “Of course not. You had nothing to do with me making bad choices.”

Sherlock did, however, find himself thinking about all the times he had bought from someone who looked a little too young to be selling.

John took a deep breath and looked down. “I’ve just never told anyone before. I don’t-“ He shook his head, “I don’t know what to do.”

“You don’t have to do anything.”

Besides the rage and hate towards Brutus, and a sadness for John, Sherlock felt something else. He felt like he was closer to John than he’s ever been before. He felt like he had a deep and unbreakable bond with the man now. Like the final wall had come down.

“I love you, John.”

John looked up, his broken eyes shone with hope. “I love you too, Sherlock.” It was more than he ever could have asked for.

John was sad. He was hurt. But he felt like everything was going to be alright.


	21. A Rose’s Petals Are Nothing Like It’s Thorns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock calls in a favor from Mycroft.
> 
> Sherlock and John have a teasing match.

Sherlock found himself oddly excited to call his brother. But he knew why.

“Brother, how’s John?” Mycroft asked, wasting no time to gather intel on the man.

“Oh, turns out he was in a gang. But I need to find someone, his codename is Brutus and he would’ve been arrested for assault and other violent crimes, known gang affiliations, and a possible alcohol or drug problem.” Sherlock listed and he heard a sigh before the sound of typing.

“And why do you need to find him?”

“He hurt John.”

That was all Mycroft needed to hear. He knew his brother wouldn’t stop till the man was found, so he decided to make it faster. “I’ve got three matches in London.”

“Any of them used as muscle?”

“That takes it down to one, Jona Scott. Alcoholic father, abusive household, he has a cocaine and meth addiction, three gang affiliations, basically a hitman.” Mycroft listed out, a bit disgusted by how predictable and stereotypical the man’s life was.

“Thank you, brother, now if you’ll just tell me where he is then I-“

“No.” Mycroft cut him off firmly. “I’ll send someone to deal with him, you aren’t going to jail for murder.”

Sherlock scoffed, “Whatever. So what’s to become of him?”

“He’ll disappear, of course.”

“Let me meet him. Just once.”

Mycroft was silent a moment before he said, “Give me a week.”

After a satisfied conclusion, they ended their conversation.

Sherlock spent the rest of the morning a bit giddy, which threw John off and he was still expecting to get thrown out for selling coke and assaulting people.

“Why are you so happy?”

“Because you’re my boyfriend.” Sherlock responded, “Also, because Mycroft tracked Brutus down.”

John sat up straight. The color left his face and he looked scared. “Leave him alone.”

“I will. But I can’t guarantee that Mycroft will.”

John narrowed his eyes. “Only because we all know that you’ll do something that’ll land you in jail, and Mycroft knew sending someone else to take care of it was the only way to stop you.”

Sherlock nodded, and this his phone pinged. He looked down and it was a photo of a man in his sixties.

_‘Make sure this is him.’_

It was from Mycroft.

He showed John the picture. “Is this Brutus?”

John looked at it for only a second and his head tilted down as his eyes flew away from the photo. “Yes.” He whispered. He was scared and Brutus wasn’t even here. He was still scared after decades of being away from him.

He also still didn’t trust himself around animals. Not that he wanted to hurt them, but what if he did accidentally? He’d never forgive himself.

Sherlock quickly retracted his arm and sent Mycroft a text to confirm that it was Brutus.

He bit his lip and then he got a great idea. He leaned down and kissed John. It was just a soft and quick peck, but it made John turn pink.

A grin took over John’s face and he rolled his eyes. “Wanker.” He couldn’t stop his smile, it was all Sherlock’s fault.

Sherlock let out a chuckle, “Oh, don’t tell me Three Continents Watson is squeamish about a little kiss.”

“I only get squeamish about people I fancy.” He threw back.

Sherlock leaned in again and stole another kiss. “I don’t think I’ve ever liked kissing so much.” He stole another, “I suppose you must be special.”

John tried his hardest to stop grinning as kiss after kiss was planted on his lips. He turned away because he wanted to laugh with joy. Something about Sherlock’s mouth put fireworks in his stomach. But it wasn’t just fireworks, there was a light and happy feeling, like he would start floating at any moment.

“Sherlock.” He whined as Sherlock continued to kiss him, but since he had turned away, Sherlock was kissing all over his cheek instead.

John tried to lean out of Sherlock’s reach but that didn’t stop Sherlock. He kissed kept coming and eventually, John leaned back enough that Sherlock placed a kiss on John’s neck because that was the next available space.

John gave a sharp inhale and his eyes widened when the kisses didn’t stop. “Sh-Sherlock!” His back arched slightly and he set a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock pulled away with a proud smirk. “Mmm, sensitive?” He asked proudly.

John’s cheeks tinted red, “You did that on purpose.”

Sherlock nodded, “Of course I did. I knew you’d eventually try to pull away, and that was my chance.” He licked his lips, “But I also know you don’t want me to stop. You’re just too proud to ask me to continue.”

John gulped and looked away, crossing his arms. “Wanker.”

“There it is, you’re getting defensive. Because you know I’m right.”

“I can’t help it. I can’t help if it feels good.”

“I know. But why fight it, if it feels good? There’s something to be said about pleasure. Humans struggle to fight what feels good to them. So maybe you did pull away, but part of you didn’t want to. You wanted to give in. And you already regret pulling away, don’t you?”

John gave a playful glare before his face lit up with an idea. Sherlock didn’t like that.

“Hm.” Was all he said before standing up, and walking towards Sherlock with a fierce determination.

It made Sherlock nervous and he started backing up. Of course, he wasn’t scared, but John could be quite intimidating when he wanted to be.

Sherlock eventually hit a wall and John was only a few centimeters from him. It was strangely arousing.

“Oh? I’m sensitive and I want to give in?” John questioned, “Well let’s see how you hold up.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and he was about to say something, until John’s lips attached themselves to his neck.

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed and he let out a soft groan at John’s slow open-mouth kisses, accompanied by light sucking.

Sherlock turned his head away to give the other more room, and his back began to slowly arch. “John, J-John this isn’t funny.”

“It isn’t meant to be.” John responded between kisses.

Sherlock bit his lip as pleasure swept across his neck and went straight to his groin.

“John, oh.” Was all he got out as John began to lightly nibble Sherlock’s skin.

Sherlock’s back quickly and suddenly arched even more in response.

John smirked and he tried to move up, but he couldn’t reach so he frowned. “You’re too tall.”

“Maybe you’d like me better on my knees.” The words fell out before Sherlock’s brain could regulate them. His eyes widened and jaw dropped when he realized what he said. “I didn’t mean to say that, it slipped out.”

John smirked, “I’m already ruining you, it seems.” John changed tactics and instead of going up, he went down.

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows and closed his eyes when John’s mouth moved to his collarbone. He licked across it and began to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt.

“J-John, don’t start something you don’t intend to finish.” He challenged.

John only smirked, “I never do.” He made it to the center of Sherlock’s chest, Sherlock was squirming and sighing before him.

“Alright, you’ve proven your point!” Sherlock squeaked out and John let out a laugh, “Oh god, you’re so cute.”

“I am not, git.”

“Shut up, wanker.” John said, pulling off Sherlock.

His shirt was undone and untucked, his hair was a bit messy, his face was flushed, and he was panting a little. He looked absolutely debauched.

“You look sinful.” John purred.

“You stay back. I’ll have no more of your mouth on my body. Calling me sinful when you’re the devil himself.” Sherlock fixed himself and crossed his arms.

John laughed, “And you say I get defensive.”

“You’re also short.”

“I’m wanking with your favorite button-up.”

“I’ll never sit on your lap again.”

“You wouldn’t be able to resist.”

Sherlock froze, John was right. So he switched tactics, “I love you, John. I’m sorry. You aren’t short, I’m just abnormally tall.” He really didn’t have much to threaten John with. “I’m starting to think you just want to wank with my clothes.”

“Yea, that too.” John agreed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Perv.”

“Your perv.”

“Lucky me.” Sherlock said sarcastically before he went into the kitchen to make himself some tea.

He observed John from the corner of his eye. One mannerism he’s picked up on was how John usually wrapped his arms around himself. Usually if he was cold, but also if he was sad or upset.

When Sherlock was seven, he fell and nearly broke his arm. He wasn’t seriously injured but the pain was so great that he just stood there for a moment before shouting, “I want mummy!” And running inside, crying.

He noticed that in painful or dangerous situations, people will always call for their mothers. They always ask the loving and protective arms of their mothers. But John never had a mum. Acacia was temporary, and it seemed that he was never too close to Monica.

Who did John have then?

He wouldn’t have gone to his sister because he was too focused on protecting her.

“John?”

“Yes?”

“When you were injured as a child, who did you go running to?”

John furrowed his eyebrows. It was a weird question, given what had just happened, but he knew Sherlock’s mind worked in strange ways. “Uh, no one. I just took care of myself.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John didn’t go crying to anyone, he was in charge of dealers in a gang, he became muscle, joined the army, and is currently a surgeon. He’s lived a stressful live and never had anyone to hold him. He’s desperate for affection.

One thing Sherlock didn’t appreciate about his own brain is that sometimes his revelations and deductions about people come seemingly out of nowhere.

Sherlock finished pouring his tea before he went over and squeezed into John’s chair with John.

John raised an eyebrow, “We could move to the couch if you want more room.”

“No, this is good.” He wrapped his arms around John and pulled him close. He held him so that John’s head was resting on his chest and he was almost sitting on Sherlock’s lap.

John had no idea what was going on, but he didn’t mind it. Just a few moments ago, John was considering buggering Sherlock’s arse and now he’s being held.

John just shifted a bit.

Sherlock let out a laugh to mask his concern. “Has no one ever held you before?”

“No. Not affectionately. People have held me back and shielded me, if that counts.”

It doesn’t and they both knew it.

Sherlock said nothing more on it and John was thankful for that.

Another conclusion that Sherlock came to was that he wanted John.

John’s always lead a stressful life.

Sherlock hasn’t wanked in over a decade.

They both needed it.

Of course, top or bottom didn’t matter to Sherlock, but he decided then and there that he would do anything to sleep with John.

“Fucking dammit.” Sherlock cursed as he got up and John busted out laughing.

Sherlock thought himself to a boner.

He took a cold shower.


	22. Raw Honey, Bubbles, Sweet Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John slowly move forward in their physical relationship.

John was a piece of shit.

He’s a piece of shit because he can tease for days on end and keep it going. He remedies it by taking care of himself at night, like a normal person.

Sherlock, on the other hand, doesn’t do that.

He doesn’t masturbate because he doesn’t want to lose himself. He’s spent his entire life regulating his emotions and learning to use logic to work through them. Feelings can do nothing to outweigh his logic.

But he is weak to physical pleasure.

He hates it and he doesn’t know why, maybe he’s just desperate for release, but he can’t control himself when he’s touching or being touched. He never could.

So when John finally asked Sherlock why he never wanks, Sherlock was embarrassed to explain it.

They were in the sitting room, just woken up and they were having a lazy Saturday together when the question came up.

“Well, I’ve always been good at regulating myself. No emotion or outside stimuli has ever been able to beat my brain. Nothing, except ..... pleasure. I don’t know why, but I can’t control myself. I lose myself, I crave more, I have to have it. Touching or being touched, my brain stops and all logic ends. I need it. So I avoid it.”

John smirked, “You don’t like it because you lose yourself, and you lose yourself because you’re so pent up from never wanking, so you don’t wank, and the cycle continues.”

“My body is purely a vessel for my brain. It wasn’t made for pleasure.”

“Oh, yes it is.” John countered, “It is and you know it. Let me in about two inches deep and I’ll change your mind. Though that isn’t it’s only purpose, your body was made to give and receive pleasure, you just don’t like it because the pleasure overrides your brain.”

Sherlock’s cheeks were dark pink and he huffed. “Fine. Perhaps your right. But that doesn’t make a difference.”

“What about me?”

“What about you?”

“What if the pleasure was coming from me?”

Sherlock shifted in his seat, he wasn’t prepared for a conversation like this. “What is it you want to know about that senario?”

“Would it make a difference if the pleasure was coming from me?”

“Of course it would! If it were coming from you, I fear how I would lose myself. I would be entirely unable to regulate myself! I wouldn’t be able to think, I would be utterly gone.”

John smirked, “Wanna find out?”

“Oh.” Was all Sherlock said a moment. “John, I would appreciate if you stopped trying to seduce me, because it’s getting increasingly hard to resist your temptations.”

John bit his lip and took a mental step back. “Do you not want to?”

“Of course I do. It’s just that, I struggle with the idea of letting myself go.”

“We can take it slow.”

“That would be preferred. At first, at least. I imagine I’ll eventually become comfortable with a faster pace.”

“What do you prefer? In bed?”

Sherlock thought a moment, a bit surprised by the topic. He is a very blunt person himself, but no one has ever asked him this before. “Well, I don’t have that clear an idea. My only experience with sex is what I did for money.”

“Do you have any preferences at all? Even if it isn’t things like positions or fantasies. What do you like done to you, where do you like to be touched?”

Sherlock was in no way a prude, but his cheeks went dark red at the question. He broke eye contact and found himself staring at the ground. “I’ve never had a conversation like this before.”

John didn’t appreciate that no one has ever asked Sherlock what he liked. He planned to give Sherlock something unlike his previous lovers, if they could even be considered lovers.

“It’s alright, take your time. Trust me, I won’t laugh or think less of you. This is important to me.”

Sherlock nodded and responded, “Of course. This conversation is purely about biological interest, nothing to blush about.” Thinking of it that way made it easier for him. “I do have ..... particularly sensitive areas.”

John was silent, prompting Sherlock to continue, “My chest has always, err, prompted a loud response, as you saw yesterday. M-My, uh, the underside of my .....” He trailed off to imply he was talking about his cock, “has always been more sensitive than the rest of the shaft. And my scalp somehow ..... “ He trailed off yet again, unsure as to how he should explain it, “It isn’t a result of pulling my hair, I never cared too much for that, but I can’t sit still when someone’s touching my hair.”

John felt honored to be trusted with such intimate information that Sherlock has never shared before. He was also a bit turned on from hearing about what Sherlock likes.

“Is there anything else you like? Things that turn you on?”

Sherlock still didn’t make eye contact. It was an intimate and vulnerable moment for him. “Besides natural aphrodisiacs? Seeing skin, the warmth of someone else’s body, touching, ..... your mouth being anywhere at all on me I’ve learned.”

He smirked, a bit prideful.

“What about you?”

John didn’t expect the conversation to be turned onto him. He gave a shy smile. “Well. I’m sensitive uh,” He realized how embarrassing to was to outright confess. “My back, is very sensitive to touch. My thighs too. My ears are sensitive, I think it’s sound. Hearing things. Moans, whimpers, telling me what you want, telling me what you’re going to do. I wanna hear your desires in their most carnal form.” John gave a sheepish grin. “Sorry, I’m getting a bit carried away.”

“Don’t apologize, you were only answering my question. What else?”

“It really doesn’t take much for me. I’m turned on pretty easy.”

“I’ve noticed.”

John rolled his eyes at the comment, but was sincere when he spoke. “Thank you, Sherlock. For telling me about what you like. I’m honored to know.”

Sherlock gave a soft smile, finally making eye contact again.

“I can’t wait to use it.” John winked.

“Bastard.”

“You love me.”

“Of course I do.”

“I love you.”

Sherlock smiled wider, he really does love John, more than he thought he could love someone.

“But seriously, thank you for telling me. You won’t regret it.”

“With a mouth like yours, I don’t doubt it.”

John smirked, “You’ll love what I’ll do to you.”

“Don’t think I don’t have ammunition as well. I could take you apart John, I’ve learned many tricks. I could have you cumming before you knew what hit you.” Sherlock challenged. He wasn’t exactly a competitive person, he was simply stating his well-founded opinion. 

John countered without even thinking about what he was saying. “I want to taste you in places that no one else has, I want to devour you. I want to savor you like wine till you give me raw honey. I want to take you apart with just my tongue. I want to make your beautiful mind crash. You have no idea how much the thought turns me on.”

Sherlock blinked in astonishment. It’s rare for someone to be able to word their desires in such a sensual manner. Most people sound awkward or like their babbling, but not John. “Amazing.”

John looked away, almost coy. “Thank you.”

“So that’s it?”

“What’s it?”

“Why you respond to well to auditory stimulation. It isn’t just about sex noises and dirty talk, you like being praised.”

It was obviously a sensitive spot for him because John went bright red and kept his eyes on the ground. “I would rather not discuss that.”

Sherlock smirked, knowing John must have quite the kink for it. “Alright, then we won’t. But do I have your permission to use it?”

“Of course.”

John finally looked back at him. “I trust you Sherlock. I just get embarrassed.”

“I understand.” He said, rather than trying to convince John to talk about it.

John felt like he had a chance to seduce Sherlock, he took it. “Can I touch your hair?”

Sherlock knew exactly what John was doing, but he decided to see where it was going. “Alright.”

John got up from his chair and moved to the sofa where Sherlock was lounging. Sherlock sat up to let John sit and then laid his head on his lap.

He relaxed and closed his eyes because he knew he would be too embarassed to make eye contact. He felt John run his hand through his hair and he lost it. A shiver ran down his spine and John must have noticed because he stifled a laugh. The hand was too distracting for him to say anything.

Sherlock tilted his head to the side and gave John access to the back of his head. John gently pet Sherlock, running his fingers through his hair and occasionally playing with it. Sherlock felt his body slowly go limp. It was relaxing, until John got to the top of nape of his neck. John was right at Sherlock’s hair line when his eyes opened, he inhaled a small gasp, and his back arched.

John chuckled, “Sorry, didn’t realize you were sensitive.”

“Neither did I.”

John slowly continued to move his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. It was easily the most intimate thing Sherlock has ever taken part of.

His eyes felt heavy so he let them close again. He sighed softly and succumbed to John’s hand. His head was tingly and he shivered through the occasional electricity that shot up his spine. Every once in a while, he would let out a soft sigh, though he was embarassed to make the noise.

John, however, was soaking it in. Every sigh, arch, squirm, and shiver. It was all so soft and sweet to him. He could stay like that for hours. Just him, getting to enjoy the softness of Sherlock. Those sighs coming from that deep voice, gorgeous. It was almost melodic. The way his clothes shifted and his body stretched with each arch, tempting. But the way he shivered was the most beautiful to John. He liked it because he knew it was completely involuntary, it was unexpected, each shiver was something that Sherlock didn’t see coming. He was slowly numbing such a beautiful mind. He was in awe at the beauty before him.

Sherlock was in paradise, even though his mind was fuzz and he couldn’t focus on anything but the feelings John gave him. Everything was gone. There were no cases, no work, no death, no evil, no past, no future. It was timeless. Even the other side of the room felt far and out of reach. There was a bubble around the couch. Just Sherlock and John. Them, in the presence of each other, enjoying the company of their love in the softest way.

Sherlock buried his face in John’s thigh. It was the only solid thing in the room. Everything else had turned to water, washing over him and making him shiver. Soft and cool. Love wasn’t always hot and suffocating, no, sometimes it was cool and open. That bubble was their entire world. Valleys, oceans, mountains, rivers, caves, curves, crevices, their bodies were a new terrain to explore.

Never in his life has Sherlock been so vulnerable. But he didn’t feel vulnerable, he felt like he was exactly where he was suppose to be, and nothing else mattered.

He didn’t move until he felt like he was going to fall asleep. He didn’t want that, not yet. He sat up and let out a soft whimper. He wasn’t sure how it slipped through.

John raised a questioning eyebrow.

They both looked so focused, there was only them, everything else was distant.

“It’s my turn.”

John gave a shy smile, “You really don’t have to.” He was mostly just enjoying the fact that he got to play with Sherlock and get under his skin, something very few could ever manage, yet Sherlock just let him.

“I want to.” His voice was low, almost lazy. John couldn’t say no.

“Go ahead then.”

Sherlock tilted his chin up. “I, too, am a force to be reckoned with.”

“Then prove it.” He didn’t doubt Sherlock, he just wanted to see what Sherlock was going to do. He didn’t think twice about it, the provocation was too tempting.

Sherlock took it as a challenge, his eyes swept over John and he got an idea.

John recognized the look and he got a bit nervous, starting to think maybe he shouldn’t’ve challenged a genius.

Sherlock leaned down and slipped a hand on the back of John’s head, holding him close as his mouth went to occupy the area near John’s ear.

He kissed the skin under it and John nearly jumped. He let out a soft whimper and his back stretched to push his torso towards Sherlock. He felt the heat of Sherlock’s mouth move higher till it was tickling the shell of his ear, he nearly squirmed at the feeling.

“You’re so beautiful, and responsive. I’ve hardly done anything and you’re already letting me hear your sweet music. Go ahead, sing for me.”

Their bubble became warm, but it wasn’t suffocating. It wasn’t the suffocating heat of past lovers that made them feel like they couldn’t breath. Everything was gentle and warm.

Sherlock’s tongue lick up the shell of John’s ear before going down to kiss and nip the skin behind it. He shivered and his lips parted. He turned his head to give Sherlock more room. His eyebrows knitted together, he found himself victim to the shivers that rushed down his spine.

Small noises escaped between exhales, he was nearly panting. Each kiss and lick was a rush of pleasure. Sherlock’s mouth was unceasing. So he sang, he gave Sherlock the music he wanted to hear.

Sherlock’s lips parted and his tongue gently licked the flesh he kissed, drawing out the notes from John, coaxing the chords right out of him. Sweet music that only played for him. Never had he heard John’s voice so raw and open. Sherlock’s own spine tingled with the vibrato. Every shaking sigh, soft gasp, guttural moan, desperate whimper, all of it shook Sherlock to the very core of his being.

He needed more.

The hand that wasn’t holding the back of John’s head began to itch for flesh. It mindlessly roamed the torso of his lover, searching for satisfaction. He found it in digging his nails in John’s shoulder.

John was foggy and lost. Sherlock was the only thing that was real in his sedated and blurry world. He was the rock that John was anchored to, steadying him as he floated in clouds of lust.

His pants tighten. But he didn’t want it to end. He was overcome by the pleasure on his neck, but his body couldn’t hold off and let John soak in the feelings that washed over him like water. “Sherlock, if you don’t stop now, I swear I’ll bugger your arse!”

It was the strangest threat Sherlock had ever received. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to stop. But he ultimately chose to cease his assault considering John couldn’t hold back his reactions very well, and that could lead to problems in both of their pants.

“My John, hardly even three minutes.” Sherlock commented as he sat up.

“That was only few minutes?” His voice was distressed, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

Their bubble stayed small, only them, but it cleared and cooled down. The clouds of lust evaporated, the oceans of pleasure withdrew, and it was calm.

”You’re quite sensitive.”

“Am not.” John defended.

“You threatened to bugger my arse, which leads me to believe you don’t know how threats work. They’re meant to be unpleasant.”

“It was more honesty than a threat.”

Sherlock smirked, “Mm, well then, I just might have to keep pushing.”

“I wouldn’t stop you.”

For the first time, Sherlock felt like he isn’t need to fight his carnal desires. He just wanted John’s body and sweet words.

John wanted nothing more than to take Sherlock apart and ruin the man. He wanted to take his articulate genius of a boyfriend and turn him into an incoherent mess.

They both wanted it, needed it, but they both knew they weren’t ready. Steadily, however, they were inching closer.


	23. Revenge Won’t Fix What’s Broken, But You’ll Feel Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock’s time to see Brutus is fast approaching and John can tell something is up.

John isn’t stupid. Sherlock never once thought he was. He also never thought of John as lesser than him. From the moment they met, he was intrigued. Many people can grab Sherlock’s attention, but very few hold it. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and John are the only ones who still did.

But John was always different. He was smart. Not just intellectually, but his reasoning skills were close to Sherlock’s. Not a match, but as they’ve worked together, they’ve formed a rhythm that makes them an unstoppable duo.

Which is why Sherlock was starting to worry that John may suspect something’s going on.

He got his first clue when John asked him why he had been so excited all week, then again when John asked if something was up because Sherlock seemed to be waiting for something, and again when John asked for a second time.

Alright, John definitely suspected something was going on, but Sherlock was sure he could inch his way around it.

He didn’t like lying to John, not in the slightest, but he wasn’t sure how John would react to him going to see Brutus. Truthfully, if John told Sherlock not to go, he wouldn’t. But he wanted to, he wanted to do badly.

He wasn’t sure why he was hellbent on seeing Brutus. Certainly it wasn’t revenge, Brutus hadn’t slighted Sherlock. It couldn’t be that Sherlock wanted to defend John’s honor because John can handle himself.

Perhaps it was curiosity. Getting to see a face of John’s past, albeit an evil one.

Or maybe it was revenge since Sherlock hated that Brutus hurt John. Quite possibly it was pure hatred, and Sherlock wanted to see Brutus in his moments before Mycroft would take care of him.

Sherlock understood how people can become fucked in the head, he understood completely. But brainwashing a child into becoming a weapon to threaten people with, that was out of line.

A week turned to three days and he realized he didn’t know what he was going to do when he saw Brutus. How would he respond, what would he say, what does he even do? The man is old now, probably still doesn’t feel bad for what he’d done.

He didn’t have any sort of plan, but he didn’t care. He just needed to see him. He needed to meet the man that did this, and possibly murder him. Sherlock hasn’t decided yet. Of course John was worth getting arrested, of course John was worth murder, but he also didn’t want to spend a live in prison over a life with John.

So perhaps murder is out of the question.

Great.

Three days turned to a matter of hours and John was on high alert.

“Who are you meeting?” John asked.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“You have that sparkle in your eyes that you only get on the rare occasion that you’re excited to go do something.”

He was a bit taken back by this. He didn’t realize John paid so much attention to him. “Well, I uh, I’m going to speak to one of Mycroft’s newest business associate.”

“Business associate? So Mycroft’s about to kill someone.”

“Why do you think that?”

“I worked with the mob, I had business associates. I know the many definitions of that word, Sherlock. I also know, Mycroft doesn’t have business associates, and even if he did, that isn’t the term you two would use. It would either be something slightly degrading or something overly technical.”

He had a good point there. “Yes, Mycroft is about to have someone killed.”

“Wait, seriously?! I was joking about that part! He’s really about to have someone killed? We just put a hitman behind bars and now they’re cool?”

“Apparently.”

John stared at him a moment, his playful smile slowly fading and it was replaced with a mix of worry and fear. “It’s Brutus, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Someone’s gonna kill him?”

“Exactly.”

“Good.”

Now Sherlock was surprised. “Good?”

“I consider myself an empathetic person. I’d like to think I can sympathize with most anyone. But him? I feel nothing for him. I’m too tired to even hate him. He made his choices, now he’s paying for it.” John spoke casually and with a shrug. He seemed entirely indifferent to Brutus’ fate. But Sherlock saw past that, he knew it meant the world to John.

“You aren’t gonna ask why we don’t prosecute him?”

“Don’t have to, I already know. Nobody’s gonna come forward besides me, and I don’t even think I can repeat what all he did to me. I wouldn’t. I really wouldn’t. This is the only form of justice there can be.”

“You aren’t upset?”

“No.”

“But murder is bad.”

“Nothing is inherently good or bad, it’s all a matter of perspective.”

“So murder isn’t always bad?” Sherlock tested.

“Someone was gonna kill Hilter if he hadn’t done it himself, I don’t think that would have been bad.”

Sherlock huffed, “Alright, but what about in the case of Brutus? How is this good?”

“Because. He hurt women, men, and children, all in a variety of ways, and everyone’s too scared to say anything. He’s done things to people that I never could’ve done at my worst.” John shook his head, “This is good, because he hurt so many people, but now, he can’t do that anymore.”

Sherlock couldn’t really argue with that. “So, is this some form of revenge?”

“No. Not revenge. Karma, justice, whatever you wanna call it. That’s what this is. Revenge isn’t suppose to feel this good.”

Sherlock decided to alter the subject a bit. “I’m off in about an hour.”

John gave a nod and then smirked. “Does he know, about anything? That you’re coming, that he’s about to die, any of it?”

“No.”

“Good. Give him a message before you leave. Tell him that Ty’s got eight bells for him.”

Sherlock was hesitant, but agreed.

There was something strange about the interaction. The lack of empathy, the happiness, John was acting quite strange. He was completely unopposed to the idea of killing a man. That wasn’t something Sherlock was used to. Even though John gave some explanation, Sherlock was still a bit wary.

Soon enough, it was time to face the beast.

\- - - - -

Brutus was passed out on his couch with wrestling playing on his TV.

Sherlock knocked at the door, he still wasn’t sure what he was going to say when Brutus opened it, but it’s more fun that way.

Brutus rolled his eyes and got up. He stumbled to the door and opened it partially, not bothering to undo the chain. “What?”

“Brutus?”

“Yea.” Now he was suspicious.

“I have a message for you from an old acquaintance, do you remember a kid named Ty?”

Brutus actually smiled. “Hell yea, that’s my little success story. Turned that kid fucking feral.” He laughed.

“He wanted me to tell you that he has eight bells for you.”

His face fell, he looked Sherlock up and down. “What’s Ty doin hangin out with pretty boys like you?”

“He’s my boyfriend.”

Brutus grunted, “I always figured he was queer.” He didn’t seem to be pleased or displeased by the fact. “Makes sense he picked you. Always liked shiny and pretty things.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “Oh, well. He just wanted me to let you know.”

“How’d you find me?”

“Oh, I forgot to introduce myself. Holmes, Sherlock Holmes.”

Now Brutus looked disgusted. “Ty’s shaggin a cop?!”

In Brutus’ world, anyone can shag anyone, but don’t shag a cop. Shagging a cop is disgusting. This was probably the most pleasant reaction Sherlock could have reasonably expected.

“Not a cop. Consulting detective.”

“Oh, so a wannabe cop.”

Sherlock smirked, “No. I actually dislike many cops. They ask me to help them when they’re in over their heads, which is often.”

“Hm, then maybe you aren’t that bad.”

Brutus closed the door and, surprisingly, he undid the chain and opened it wider. “So, why’d he send his boyfriend? You’d think he’d know better than to send a loved one to deliver a message like that.”

“I can handle myself.”

“You think you can handle yourself. I’m old, kid. But Ty, ha, he could do things I couldn’t even do! It’s cause he started young, got stronger than the lot of us. He was fuckin crazy.”

“You made him that way.”

Brutus raised an eyebrow and let out a laugh. “No, I really didn’t. Each of us has such a capacity for good, and such a capacity for evil. I just gave him a little push.”

Sherlock looked him up and down. “You know what’s about to happen, don’t you?”

“Yep. There’s a hit. I guess Ty didn’t tell you what eight bells means.” Brutus chuckled, “Figures he wouldn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because he wouldn’t tell you it’s a warning. You know what I did, you wouldn’t warn me. It’s cause you aren’t like him. He wants me to know, he wants me to count my seconds, wants me to stress. He’s always been like that. He likes seeing people squirm before they get it. He likes when people know the tragedy that’s about to hit ‘em.” Brutus was silent a moment, remembering his time with John. “Ty, he really liked boats and ships and stuff. There’s this saying, to knock seven bells out of someone. It came from the ships ringing their bells every half hour, and at eight bells, it’s shift change. When you knock seven bells out of someone, means you just about killed them. If I got eight bells, I’m dead.”

Ship lingo, Sherlock was appalled that he didn’t recognize ship lingo. Then again, he’d always been more interested in pirates than actual sailors. Still, he was disappointed in himself.

“Well, for the record, neither of us know when it’ll be.”

“Didn’t figure you did. But since my clock’s running out, how about you skedaddle along and let me spent the rest of my life in peace.”

The bit of aggression in Brutus reminded Sherlock of why he was there.

He threw a quick left hook straight into Brutus’ nose.

“Ah, fuck!” Brutus cursed, he grabbed his nose and felt the blood on his hand, he looked at it and stared a moment. He looked up at Sherlock with a smirk and let out a laugh. “Good swing, Ty would be proud.”

Brutus started to close the door, but then he stopped and said, “Ask Ty if he barbecues his shrimp.”

Sherlock was getting a bit tired of the cryptic bullshit, but he went with it and left.

Brutus closed the door. He slowly made his way to his chair, almost savoring the walk. He sat down and turned off the TV. He let the darkness and the silence sink it.

He looked around his apartment, taking in every little trinket he had. It was in that moment that Brutus realized he has absolutely nothing to show for his life. No one would remember him fondly, no one would wonder about what happened to him, he wondered if he would even have a funeral, and if he did, would anyone show.

It was a waste, but it didn’t matter anymore.

He closed his eyes and sat back in his chair. He remembered it all, every inch of his life. All his glory and shame, triumphs and defeats, it was a convoluted mess. But it didn’t matter anymore.

His body longed for it’s home in the damp and dark earth, a cool resting place. A tear fell from his eyes, his chest was hollow, and his jaw ached. For the first time in decades, he let sadness creep into his bones.

Strangely, he had no regrets. He felt no remorse. He knew he did bad things, but he didn’t care. He didn’t know how. The most human emotion he’s ever felt came in that moment, a desperate urge for self-preservation. He didn’t want to die, he wanted to live, he wanted more time, but it didn’t matter anymore.

His last words were said, he died in his chair, and his soul was gone in a shaking breath. He was nothing more than a bad memory.

His apartment was left dark and silent, just as John remembered it to be.

\- - - - -

John was bouncing his leg as he waited for Sherlock to get back. He was anxious, but he was also glad he didn’t go.

He was, however, a bit surprised when Sherlock did return. He had only been gone about half an hour.

“Back already?” John asked and Sherlock just gave a nod, hanging up his coat.

“You made me warn him.” Sherlock was a bit upset, but only by the fact that he didn’t understand the lingo.

“Yep.”

“Why?”

John just shrugged. “I don’t know. I just wanted to. I wanted him to know.”

“You wanted him to know he’s about to die and that he’s powerless to stop it.” Sherlock sat down on his couch. “John, really?”

“Yes.” He sighed out the word. “So what if I want to make him suffer. Even if it’s just a little while, I want him worried, I want him scared, because that’s all I can do.”

“So it was revenge.” He concluded.

John’s serious expression changed to a small smile. “Little bit, yea. It’s the closest thing to revenge I’ll ever get.”

Sherlock shut his eyes a moment, processing what happened until John asked, “Sherlock, what happened to your hand?”

Sherlock looked down and he had some of Brutus’ blood on his knuckles. “Oh. I broke Brutus’ nose.” He said with a casual shrug.

He let out a laugh and clapped his hands. “Oh god, that’s hilarious! Nice job.”

“He said you would be proud. Oh, he also wanted me to ask if you barbecue your shrimp?”

John’s smile dropped. He looked afraid.

“John, what does that mean?”

“Nothing bad, nothing that needs to be worried about, it’s just a jab at me.”

“Then why did you look terrified?”

“It’s a really effective jab at me.”

Barbecued shrimp? Bad experience with food, possible play on putting a “shrimp on the barbie” which would denote something about Australia, it could be something else about the ocean, or it could just be another piece of nonsense slang from some other occupation that Sherlock didn’t care about.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked and John nodded.

He was silent, but Sherlock could tell he wanted to say something. After a moment, he did, “I love you Sherlock. I love you, I really do. This has been the best three months of my life, you know.”

Sherlock couldn’t stop a small smile from appearing on his face. “Oh, and I as well.”

“I love you so much and I’ve never trusted anyone like I’ve trusted you. I just want you to know that.”

Something’s up. Something’s definitely up.

“What’s going on, John?”

“Nothing, really. He always knew how to twist me and hurt me. Suppose he couldn’t resist one last blow. If anything, it only shows how well I hit him. He never swung below the belt, but this time he did, goes to show I finally got to him.”

Sherlock trusted John, so he nodded. “Alright then.”

They left it at that.

They spent the day talking about whatever. Topics came and went, hours melted away, day became night.

Over the course of the day, Sherlock noticed John getting a bit happier. By dinner he seemed almost giddy. It comforted Sherlock that John was feeling better, even though the reason he was feeling better was that someone got murdered.

Sherlock didn’t really know what to think. It was shocking to come face to face with the person who hurt John, it was strange to have a conversation with him, and it felt good to break his nose. All in all, he wouldn’t change how the interaction went. Not like the ending could be altered.

It was strange to take pleasure in the death of another. But that wasn’t all John felt. Most of all, it was an overwhelming sense of relief, almost joy, that the darkest part of his life was gone. He felt lighter than air, and thankful for the way his life turned out.

John considered himself to have been a monster. Of course, there were people much worse than him, and he only ever hurt criminals. But he finally recognized that the monster he became, wasn’t his fault. That what he did, he did to get protection for Harry, so he never regretted it in the first place. He became used to hurting people, it was whatever. It wasn’t what he did that made him feel bad, it was what he became. He knew that if provoked, he probably would’ve hurt an innocent. He was on the verge of becoming a murderer. Morals became blurry in the end. That’s what he was ashamed of. Not what he did, but what he became.

He also recognized that he really wasn’t the same person anymore, and that he would never hurt an innocent person today.

He felt like his past had finally become his past. He felt like he it wasn’t baggage he was carrying around with him, but that it really was his past now. It was behind him.

\- - - - -

A week later, however, John found himself standing in front of a grave while Sherlock thought he went to the store. He didn’t intend on going, but he ended up there.

He remembered the time he accidentally called Brutus, “dad”. It was a slip of the tongue. It was the only time it ever happened. But Brutus looked so proud.

John never realized how fucked up it was until now.

He finally realized how Brutus sunk his claws into John and twisted him into something else. He understood that Brutus wasn’t proud, he was prideful. The difference was that Brutus’ pride stemmed from how well he tainted John, and how low he had to drag him, to get a slip of the tongue like that. That’s what Brutus enjoyed, not being called dad, but knowing how he ruined John.

Brutus died twice. Physically, and again when the piece of him living in John’s heart was finally evicted. It no longer had room for things that only hurt. Sherlock was filling every inch of it.

John left a lily, and he never let himself look back.


	24. One Final Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are looking up. John is healing, their relationship is going further, and that makes what John’s about to do so much harder.
> 
> He could ruin it all.
> 
> But not before an impromptu visit by Mycroft.

Six months together and John finally got the balls to say he was gonna move into Sherlock’s room. Of course, Sherlock was very happy about it. So happy that he went straight up to John’s room and started packing his stuff.

John was a bit surprised but he quickly joined Sherlock in moving his stuff up to his room.

He’s realized that they’ve learned a lot about each other in the past year. Shared their birthdays, pasts, problems, every secret. They were so open with each other that nothing was secret.

Expect, John had one final confession.

He often wondered if he really had to admit it. If it was really worth risking their relationship over one tiny technicality.

John’s birthplace. His hometown. Was it really worth it?

He wanted to be honest, he wanted so badly to be honest. But he didn’t know how Sherlock would take it.

One day he decided to mention it. “Hey, did I ever tell you where I’m from?”

Sherlock’s face immediately lit up. “No.”

“Are you even interested in knowing?”

“Extremely.”

John just gave a nod and didn’t take the conversation any further.

That made Sherlock’s face drop. Not because he wasn’t told where John was from, but because he realized John had one final secret, and it might be even worse than everything else John told him.

Sherlock didn’t question it any more. He knew John needed his time. But he also knew there was a chance he may never know.

That was the one thing he couldn’t stand, not knowing. He’d tried deducing it before, but John gave off no indication of being from somewhere specific. As far as he knew, it could be any old town or city in England. But it had to be near Brighton, and it had to be on the coast. That’s all Sherlock had to go off of. It wasn’t enough, he had nothing to narrow it down with.

\- - - - -

A few days later, a knock came at the door. Mrs. Hudson opened it to find Mycroft standing there.

She greeted him with a smile. “So nice to see you again Mycroft, come inside.” She moved back to let him enter, “John is upstairs, and Sherlock isn’t here right now, but he’ll be back in about an hour.”

He gave her a nod. “Thank you.”

He walked upstairs and knocked lightly on the apartment door.

John opened it, he was momentarily surprised to see Mycroft was there, but the surprise changed to happiness. “Hey Mycroft, come in.” He stepped aside to let Mycroft enter.

For only a split second, jammed between other emotions, Mycroft saw that John was briefly scared. Interesting.

“Sherlock isn’t here right now, he’s out with Lestrade, should be back in an hour though. Want some tea?”

Mycroft nodded and seated himself on the sofa while John put the kettle on.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Well, my little brother’s wrapped himself up in a relationship with a man that I don’t know so well. And the things I have figured out, aren’t so pretty.”

John looked down, he really should’ve seen it coming. He wouldn’t trust himself either.

“I understand. Can’t say I’m surprised. So what do you want to know?”

“Brutus, the man I had killed. Who was he to you?”

John thought a moment. “I can’t really come up with a word to describe what he was to me. Torturer, perhaps.”

“What did he do?”

“Locked me in a dog cage for about a week, starved me, then made me hurt animals in exchange for food. Made me do it until I was completely desensitized. Then we moved on to people.”

For some reason, he had no problem telling Mycroft everything. He had no clue why. He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, as if nothing he said had any emotional significance at all.

That wasn’t at all what Mycroft was expecting. He had prepared himself for many answers to the question, he had prepared himself for the different ways this conversation could go, but he had no idea the kind of monster Brutus really was.

At that point, John had come back into the living room with tea for himself and Mycroft.

“Why?” Mycroft questioned.

“It was part of my training.”

“For what?”

“Moving up in the gang.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, interested. “What did you become?”

“I went from a lookout, to a dealer, to a supplier, to muscle.”

“You beat people up for the mob?”

“Yep.”

Mycroft was in shock. It took a lot to make him like that. He couldn’t believe the man before him, the short little man who was swallowed up in a comfy jumper, used to work for the mob as muscle.

“How did you get out?” It was obvious John wasn’t still in. But he had to have done something to get out that didn’t make him a traitor or a deserter. Either would’ve put a target on his back, but he didn’t act like there was one. So there had to be something else.

“I earned my stripes and retired.”

Mycroft sipped his tea and then asked, “So you retired and became a military student at uni. What made you want to change?”

“I didn’t want to kill anyone. Hurt, maim, but never kill. Then someone died because of me. That’s when I knew that the next person that died would be because I pulled the trigger myself. I stopped before I could go down that road.”

“You exchanged that life for a war where you do kill people.”

“I was a surgeon, first of all. Secondly, it was different. I was killing grown men who knew exactly what they were getting themselves in to, the boy who was killed because of me was fourteen.”

Mm. So that’s where most of his guilt lies. “How many people did you hurt?”

“Hundreds.”

“Feel bad?”

“No.”

Mycroft immediately pounced on John’s lack of empathy for his actions. “That wasn’t all, was it? Your time with Brutus hadn’t ended. What else happened?”

John looked up, he knew Mycroft was a bit smarter than Sherlock, but he wasn’t prepared for this kind of question. Nevertheless, John answered, “He became sort of a mentor. He taught me how to hurt people. Taught me to use a gun, knife, my hands, my mind, everyt-“

“Your mind?” Mycroft interrupted, a bit surprised.

John sighed, “Find what makes someone tick, exploit it. Weasel your way into their family, destroy their home life. Tell them about how beautiful their teenage child or significant other is, make them helpless. Do whatever necessary in order to make sure the target doesn’t fall out of line.”

“What makes me tick then?”

“Sherlock, obviously.”

“Well he is irritating b-“

“No. Sherlock doesn’t make you tick, Sherlock is your tick.”

That shut Mycroft up, so John continued, “You two have a strange but necessary dynamic. You both lead dangerous lives, so I actually admire what you two do. You pretend to despise each other so that if something happened, you can’t be used against each other. Moriarty even fell for it. When he was picking Sherlock’s three closest people, you weren’t a target.”

John leaned back in his seat, relaxed and completely in control of the situation. Mycroft’s subtle surprise reminded him of the other powerful men he used to go after. But they were powerful for very different reasons.

Mycroft realized what John was doing, he was reverting back to his old ways. He recognized the situation as familiar and was falling into habitual body lauguage, which told him that John went after prominent people in the underground of London. He stayed silent, so John would continue.

“I remember when we first met. You were going to pay me to spy on Sherlock. Something about the way you asked, I don’t know, it just seemed off. I could tell straight away that you weren’t as villainous as most people would assume. Your intentions weren’t malicious. When Sherlock told me that you’re his brother, I realized it was out of love. You wanted intel because you were genuinely scared for Sherlock. I see why, he was in a dark place. It’s smart, and it’s exactly why you’re here now. You want to make sure Sherlock is safe and that I am who you think I am. I can’t blame you, I wouldn’t trust me either. But Sherlock doesn’t make you tick, he is your tick, he’s your weakness. That’s also why you two are distant from your parents, you love them too much to put them in danger.”

John said it all so casually, as if it had been obvious the whole time. As if it wasn’t a big deal that he’d figured it out. For the first time, Mycroft felt challenged by someone other than Sherlock. He finally realized that John wasn’t just another mindless goldfish, he was a force to be reckoned with.

John smirked, “But what would I know, I’m just a goldfish.”

He remembered when Mycroft once said he was in a world full of goldfish, he wanted to mess with Mycroft a little bit.

“You weren’t just muscle, you were intimidation, intel, a spy, you’ve probably kidnapped people and tortured them for information.”

“Probably? Let’s be realistic here. Of course I did.”

“Why?”

“Harry.” John responded. Mycroft’s silent prompted him to continue. John knew Mycroft was doing it on purpose, using silence so he would fill it with an elaboration on his quick responses. John understood manipulation.

“If you want me to keep talking, you can just ask. You can’t use silence forever.”

Mycroft blinked, people never noticed when he used silence to get more information. “Alright then, elaborate.”

“I did it for Harry. We were street rats, but she was always better. She got out when we were kids, got a real job. But that meant she gave up the protection the gang offered. While she was in, we didn’t have to worry about her getting taken away and sold, or hurt. But when she left, I worried. I had to protect her, she was all I had, I couldn’t lose her.”

“You became a monster to keep her safe.”

“Better me than her.”

It was in that moment that Mycroft saw John as an equal. Not to say that he used to think that he was better than John. But he saw John as being the same as him. The overprotective kid who would do anything for their sibling. And John really did everything for Harry.

“Alright, I trust you.”

John gave a nod, a way of saying that he understood on a much deeper level than their base conversation.

They drank their tea in silence, but it wasn’t awkward, it was comfortable.

Sherlock walked in and looked horrified by the sight. “Mycroft, why are you here?”

“Well, you started dating a man I hardly know. So I came to assess him myself.”

“And?”

“He isn’t like everyone else.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. He looked at Mycroft and then John. “What happened?”

“I answered his questions.” John said, as if it was as simple as that.

“He’s quick. Picked up on things no one else had.” Mycroft actually smiled. “I like this one.”

Sherlock looked John up and down, but decided not to question it any further. He sat down and sighed, “Well, you approve, are you going to leave now?”

“You can drop the act Sherlock. You two care about each other so much that it’s almost painful. Then you go around acting like you hate each other, you don’t have to do that around me.”

“You told him?”

“He’s always known.” Mycroft responded.

“I thought it was obvious.” John shrugged. Of course their quips and irritation were completely real, but they didn’t dislike each other at all even though any outsider would think they did.

Sherlock looked at John, surprised. That’s when he understood why Mycroft decided to approve of John. He finally saw that John was different. But by the same token, he was quite shocked that John saw past their act.

Sherlock tilted his head, “Were you the same with Harry?”

“No. But I’ve seen people put on the same act to protect the people that they love from me.”

The truth was unsettling. But it was enough.

Sherlock got himself some tea and was soon talking to Mycroft about dozens of things. Work, their parents, whether or not Mycroft was gonna get in a relationship, recent cases, old cases, cases that Sherlock solved in his own free time. Last week he closed seven open cases in Spain, all kidnapped peoples and he ended up busting a human trafficking operation in the process.

John was quite proud and Mycroft even had a few words of approval.

Everything was normal until John started to feel a bit guilty about still keeping a secret.

They noticed John was lost in his own mind, Sherlock had never seen it before. John never got lost, but now he was. He was sedated.

That’s when Mycroft told Sherlock about what he’s discovered. That John was a bit more important than he had let on, that he was more than muscle, and he was targeting people much more important than simple druggies.

John’s expression slowly changed from calm to ashamed to sad to fearful. It was astonishing.

Their conversation eventually concluded, they said their goodbyes, and Mycroft’s left.

Sherlock went over to John, unsure of what to do. He decided to poke John until he came too. It only took two to the gut before John cringed and looked up.

“What?”

“John, you’re been staring at the floor for two hours. Mycroft just left.”

“Oh.”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “What’s wrong?”

John wasn’t sure how he should respond. He chose honesty. “Sherlock, I’ve told you about some terrible things. You’ve heard every inch of my story. I don’t think any of it can hold a candle to me telling you where I’m from.”

“John, it won’t change anything. Surely you know this. I won’t tell a soul if you don’t want me to. I love you, I love everything about you, I love every inch of you. No matter how bad you think it is. I promise you, it won’t change a thing to me.”

He blinked a few times, taking a deep breath. Sherlock knew he was only a push away from finally learning John’s last secret.

“We’ve both done bad things, but we’re beyond it now. Let your past go, share the future with me.”

That’s all John needed to hear.

“Alright. But, really. If you don’t want to see me again after this, I completely understand.”

“Don’t worry about that, because it will change nothing.”

John nodded, “Okay. I’ll tell you.”


	25. Transparent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John becomes completely transparent to Sherlock, he has nothing left to hide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The birthplace of Watson, canonically, is Scotland. However, in The Sign Of Four (the original work by Doyle), Watson admits to having spent much of his schooling ..... somewhere else. That is where I’ve chosen to make Watson’s birthplace.
> 
> The specific city was never named in Doyle’s works, so I picked a random one in the same area.

“I’m ..... not from here.”

Sherlock knew he wasn’t from a London already, wasn’t from Brighton either. It made him wonder why John was so sensitive about his hometown. He spoke as if his entire life was dependent on it.

“When Harry, Anthony, the others, and I left my hometown. We left at the docks.”

John let the words sink in to Sherlock. His expression changed from curiosity to concern. “You left on a boat.” He realized quietly.

John nodded. “We were stowaways on a cargo ship. I don’t remember how long it took us to reach Brighton, maybe around three weeks.”

It was then that Sherlock understood the seriousness of John’s confession. His expression became unreadable. It looked like a mix of amazement, concern, and fear. That long on a cargo ship was an amazing distance.

Sherlock stood up and paced around the room. Anxiety seeped into the pit of John’s stomach. It was getting so bad he almost began to tremble. But there was no going back now.

“Sherlock, please, sit down.”

“No need, just tell me. Out with it.”

Sherlock has spent years being unaware, and months yearning for the truth. Now that he was about to receive it, he wasn’t sure he wanted it. Perhaps it would be better to have remained blissfully unaware.

John watched Sherlock continue to pace around. They were both scared.

“I’m from Adelaide. Adelaide, Australia.”

Sherlock stopped walking and his jaw dropped. “Oh god.” Was all he said for a while. He then resumed pacing around the room, walking faster now, his mind racing. “Who knows?”

“Me and Harry, Monica, and Brutus knew.”

Sherlock stopped again, whipping around to look John in his eyes. “So THAT’S why you were so okay with his death! You two had gotten close, closer than you cared to admit to me, you told him where you were from, and then you got worried he would tell.”

John gave a small nod.

It explained so much. Not only did Brutus brainwash him, but he also got leverage on him. “Is that why you waited so long to finally start turning people in?”

“I couldn’t let anyone know where I was from. Bad enough I was a criminal. Lestrade was able to ignore that when I gave him the list of locations. But, he couldn’t have ignored something like that. If Brutus caught wind that all my old associates were suddenly ending up in jail, he would’ve caught on and told.”

“So that’s why you’ve always been uncomfortable around my brother.”

“He says he’s got a minor position in the government, I think we both know it isn’t anywhere near as minor and he claims. I couldn’t let him find out.”

“You thought he woul-“

“Of course I did! I thought the same with Lestrade. So I buried everything.” He took a deep breath. “I had photographs. Pictures from when I was little. I, I burned all of it one night. I just got so paranoid! I couldn’t let the truth out because I worked **so goddamn hard to get where I am**!” His voice grew and sounded raw when he shouted. He couldn’t take it, he had to let it out.

John took a moment to himself, calming down from his outburst. His voice was low and harsh as he spoke, “Everything. **Every. Bloody. Thing.** That I ever did. I did for Harriet and for Monica. Every fucking bit of it was to keep the few people that I had, safe! I couldn’t let anything ruin it. I couldn’t.” He felt a tear fall from his face. “So yea, I’m fucking illegal! I’m a bloody Aussie! But I’ll be **dammed** if I was gonna get deported and ruin everything I did for them!”

“Illegals tend not to break the law.” Sherlock pointed out.

“Yea. But breaking the law was all I knew how to do. It was the devil I was familiar with, that’s why me and Harry went to London after Brighton got hard. We knew how to work the streets and we knew how to not get caught. On top of it all, we were kids, we didn’t know any better. We didn’t exactly have a plan, we just did whatever necessary and hoped it worked out.”

“Well, that explains the shrimp comment!” Of course he never forgot, not when a simple comment made John so terrified. “That also explains Anthony’s accent, you’re both from Australia.” Sherlock sighed silently, sitting down. “It’s okay.”

John looked over at him.

“It’s okay that you aren’t from here. Your birth certificate’s fake anyways, being from a different country doesn’t make that much of a difference.”

They were both looking at the ground and avoiding eye contact. John felt extremely relieved at how it turned out, Sherlock was a bit worried, but he tried to push it to the side. There was no way anyone would find out John wasn’t legal, not after all these years.

They sat in silence. It wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable, even though there was a bit of tension.

They both suddenly felt exhausted, like they just wanted to curl up and pretend nothing ever happened.

“You burned photographs? Was that your only memorabilia?” He wanted to lighten things up a bit and change the topic somewhat, but still further the conversation.

“Yes. Harry has copies of the pictures. She let me keep the originals because she knew how much I missed it. Those warm beaches are burned into my mind. I loved the beach. I hardly even remember anything but the sounds of the waves and the warmth of the sun, but I love it. It felt so carefree, even if it wasn’t. I never quite got used to the cold here, Afghanistan was almost a relief. Never much liked the cold. That’s why I always wear jumpers.”

Sherlock always believed John wore jumpers because they were comfy. He thought it was a style choice. He didn’t realize that John was genuinely cold all the time.

“What did you wear before? Back in Australia?”

“T-shirts and basketball shorts. Tank tops. Sandals. Whatever. Not like I had much of a wardrobe. I think I had a jacket but it was big enough to swallow me.”

Sherlock smiled a moment, but it soon faded. John was poor, living on the streets. Likely malnourished most of his life. That explains why he’s so short. Sherlock blinked a few times, suddenly overcome with the the to get John something to eat, but it’s too late now. He shook the feeling off.

“It’s so bloody hot there, I can’t imagine surviving those temperatures.”

John rolled his eyes. “Brit.”

Sherlock gave a playful glare. “Says the man from the island we dumped prisoners on.”

“Hey! The aboriginals have a very rich history and culture. We just showed up one day and fucked it all up. But yes, I’m technically the descendant of criminals. Only fitting I became one.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “You aren’t a criminal. You’re a soldier, a damn good surgeon, a bloody detective, a blogger, and most importantly, my boyfriend.”

John cracked a smile. “And you’re my consulting detective.”

“How did you fool the recruitment officers when you first enlisted? Didn’t they need to see your birth certificate?”

“They were desperate for recruits, not to mention I was in school to become a doctor. They didn’t give a shit, barely skimmed over it.”

Sherlock shook his head, trying it to laugh. “Did you ride kangaroos back in your day?”

“I’ll take the Aussie jokes, but don’t you dare call me old. I’m only eight years older than you.”

“But you’re already such a grumpy old man in your big jumpers, reading the newspaper over a cuppa.”

“I’m not bloody old.” He defended.

“You’re pretty alluring for an old man.”

John got up. “Where the hell is your purple button-up?” He asked as he headed towards their room.

“Stop trying to reach gratification with my clothes!”

“Are gonna keep calling me old?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m wanking with your clothes.”

“You horny bastard!”

“Maybe.” John shrugged.

“Fine, I’ll stop calling your old. Just leave my favorite shirt alone.”

John returned to his seat. “Why is it your favorite, anyways?”

“Because I look irresistible in it.” Sherlock closed his eyes a moment, letting a smile take over his face. “I can’t believe you’re from Australia. You spent your first six years there, yet you don’t have a trace of an accent.”

“When I first got to Brighton, me and Harry adjusted to sound like natives. Safer that way. After a few years in London, we lost our original accents. Sometimes it comes back if I get really mad, last time it happened was Afghanistan.”

Sherlock sighed. “Foreigner, doctor, criminal, soldier, an older man. Christ, I think you fit every fantasy a person can have.”

John covered his face. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” He confirmed, “Personally I always had a penchant for pirates and military men. You fill the second easy, and your experience on docks and having been a stowaway gives me plenty to think about for the first.”

John looked at Sherlock with wide eyes. He was no prude, but never in his life has someone outright said he fulfills their fantasies.

“Under any other circumstance I wouldn’t have admitted that, but I’m desperately trying to make positive conversation in order to let you know that I’m okay with you being illegal. It really changes nothing.” Sherlock clarified.

John chuckled, “Ah, I was sort of wondering how we went from me being illegal to me being an object of your desire. Not that I’m complaining.”

“You’ve been an object of my desire for years, John.”

He furrowed his eyebrows, “But you didn’t even know you loved me til-“

“Doesn’t matter. I wasn’t looking for a relationship before, but I wasn’t blind. In our time together I was very aware of how handsome you are. I’ll admit, I had dreams, fantasies, curiosities. But I didn’t act upon them because as far as I knew, you weren’t interested.”

“I was. Sort of. Yea, I had thoughts and the occasional dream. I wasn’t blind either. But I didn’t think you were interested.”

Sherlock sat there, defeated. “John, I think we might be the two biggest idiots on the planet.”

“I think you might be right.”

He quickly changed the subject again. “So, you dreamed about me?” He smirked.

John rolled his eyes. “Once or twice, yes.”

“How did it go? What did you want to do to me?”

“Really, this is where the conversation has gone? I swear, Sherlock, you’re insatiable. I remember a while ago when I was playing with your hair, then all of a sudden you pounce and go for the neck.”

“You make me sound like a wild animal.”

“You are one.”

“I can be if you want me to.” Sherlock offered playfully.

“Christ.” John breathed out the word, hardly believing what he was hearing.

“So, the dreams, the fantasies, how did it go?”

John couldn’t believe he was about to confess this. “They always started out normal. Me and you, doing whatever, usually in here. I never really knew how it happened, but something would always end up pushing us together. And uh, w-we would, have sex. Sherlock, this is embarrassing.”

“Don’t be daft, give me more detail.”

John rolled his eyes, looking down as his cheeks went red. “What kind of detail do you want?”

“Who topped?”

“It varied.”

“Who took it up the arse?”

“Also varied.”

Sherlock gave a satisfied smirk. “Strange, so did mine.”

“Sherlock you’re basically a virgin all over again. Don’t even talk to me about taking it up the arse.”

“When’s the last time you did?”

John blushed harder, swallowing. “Two years ago.”

“I didn’t say last time you took someone else up the arse. Be honest John, your own fingers count.”

“Yesterday.”

“Impossible. We spent the entirety of yesterday together.”

John chuckled. “Yea, but you eventually did fall asleep.”

Sherlock’s face flushed, “We were in the same bed.”

“I snuck off to my room so I didn’t wake you.”

Sherlock was silent a moment, his eyes became calculating, sweeping over John. “How often have your masturbated since we got together?”

John huffed out of embarrassment. “I don’t know! Few times a week, as per usual. No need to ask you, you haven’t wanked in over a decade.”

“Do you often think about me when you do it?”

John’s face went red again, “Yes.” Though he was no prude, he did like some privacy.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I figured it was obvious. Of course I wank to the thought of my sexy genius boyfriend.”

“You think I’m sexy?”

“Have you never heard of a fucking mirror, Sherlock? Everyone who’s seen you thinks your sexy. But why should I have told you about my masturbation habits? I just confessed to being an illegal immigrant! You’re concerned about all the wrong things!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Because if you had told me, we would’ve had sex before now, or at least done something. I’ve spent the last six months like a nun.”

“That’s a lie, that’s a bloody lie and you know it. You are no nun, you’re an animal! That’s what you’ve been. And quite honestly, I’ve been a bit too guilty and unsure to ever take that step.”

“Well, any more secrets or guilt that I should know about?”

“I walked in on you showering last week and I stood there a full five minutes before walking out. There, guilt free.”

Sherlock paused, “You, you watched me shower?”

“I couldn’t look away.”

“You saw me nude!”

“It was an accident, at first.”

Sherlock blushed and then crossed his arms. “Have you ever wanked to it?”

“O-Of course. I’ve wanked to just about every piece of skin you’ve shown me. Every kiss, every laugh, every tease. I take pleasure in all of it. But I can’t be the only one with guilty pleasures.” He turned the matter over to Sherlock, expected a confession of some sort.

Sherlock only smirked. “I never feel guilty about the things I take pleasure in. I once found a picture of you in your army fatigues that gave me a particularly creative dream. Said dream almost pushed me to orgasm in my sleep.”

John’s jaw dropped. He blinked a few times and then asked, “Are you trying to seduce me?”

“Depends, is it working?”

“Yes. But why? I just admitted to being illegal.”

“John, I mean when I say that doesn’t matter to me. Yes, it’s important, and I’m honored that you told me. But it doesn’t change my opinion of you and it most certainly doesn’t change our relationship. The way I see it, is that you’ve healed tremendously over the past few months, and now, you’re guilt-free.”

Sherlock was completely right. John hasn’t felt this good and free, ever. Neither of them have ever been so close to someone before.

No point in holding back now.


	26. Sweet Release

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The smut you’ve all been waiting for.

John stopped holding back three days later. They were cuddling when Sherlock decided to start his flirting again.

He was complementing John, telling him about how he couldn’t wait to finally lay with him. “One day you’ll finally crack, you’ll shatter, and you’ll spend the night in my pants.” His voice was low and intentionally seductive. “It’ll be so much fun, I really don’t see why you don’t give me the honor tonight.”

“Sherlock, don’t start something you can’t finish.” John warned as Sherlock’s words were very effective on him. He knew that Sherlock was incredibly well versed in the art of seduction, but he had no idea the man could make giving in feel so easy.

“I’m not, in fact.” He crawled on top of John, which was easy since he was already half-laying on him as they relaxed on the sofa. “I plan on finishing it.”

John’s eyes widened in surprise, but he quickly found his resolve. “No you aren’t.” He challenged with a misplaced sense of control.

Of all things, Sherlock let out a growl and went for the neck. It caught John off guard and he let out a soft cry.

He really needed to stop underestimating Sherlock.

He held back a moan and his breath hicked as Sherlock’s mouth kissed up his neck. “Fuck.” He gasped as his back gently arched.

But still, he was having none of it. He flipped them over and simpered down at Sherlock. “It’s your turn.” He leaned down and pressed open-mouth kisses up and down Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock gasped and his hands gripped the couch, “John.” The word came out in a low and gruff groan. He squirmed and let out a soft moan as a hand clawed at John’s back, making the older man grunt. Sherlock felt his blood flowing between his legs. He shifted and a hand made it’s way to the back of John’s head, almost wanting to hold him there and relish the pleasure. Breathy moans made their way from Sherlock’s parted lips while John’s mouth slowed and focused on the side of Sherlock’s neck.

He whined and tilted his head to give John more room. Although he claimed his body was purely a vessel and that he didn’t care for pleasures, he craved the feeling on his neck. A weak gasp came through as John gently nipped at a soft spot. He couldn’t believe how badly he wanted this. His years of self-control were failing him. Something much deeper and older was burning inside of him, a desire that he didn’t know how to deny. He was far past the point of no return.

John pulled away and looked at Sherlock, silently asking for permission. Sherlock couldn’t say no. It’s what he’s been wanting for months, “It’s okay.”

With that, John began to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt. He leaned back and pulled the fabric off his lover, revealing the scars of his time as a captive. Most of the scars were healed as it had been over a year since the event. But there were a few that were never going to go away. They were small now, but there. Just a few scattered on his chest. “Absolutely gorgeous.” John commented breathlessly.

Along with the scars, he’d never properly seen that Sherlock had muscled up a bit as well. It was incredibly sexy.

He kissed at Sherlock’s clavicle and slowly moved down. He went lower and let the tip of his tongue drag across Sherlock’s skin, leading to his chest. A hand roamed up Sherlock’s body to feel his abdomen.

Sherlock watched John move down his body. He whined and turned his head to the side, sighing at the feeling of John's hands on his body. He had never really cared for physical pleasures in his youth, but now that he had John, he felt like a fool for never indulging himself. He shivered and felt his skin prickle up at the feeling of warm and strong hands caressing him. Purposeful, intense, steady. Sherlock could deduce John's profession from his hands alone. He let out a whimper as he felt John getting close to his nipple. John soon latched on and let his tongue roll and flick the sensitive flesh.

“J-J-John! Oh.” Was all he could get out between his panting and whimpering. His nipples perked up and hardened at John’s toying but he needed more. He tilted his head back and furrowed his eyebrows as he felt one of John's hands slowly travel up his body to play with the other nipple.

Strings of useless sounds fell from Sherlock’s lips. The attention on his chest only made his pants tighter. He felt himself throbbing as he craved friction between his legs. He was filled with a steady pleasure that kept him on edge, neither wanting nor overwhelmed. He wasn’t just filled with lust, but there was love as well. John didn’t just make him feel good, he felt loved and cared for. That allowed him to bask in the glory of the flesh as he never had before. It was always about getting to the end, but now, he relished every second of it and was in no hurry for it to be over.

John knew exactly what Sherlock needed. He wanted to take his time while he had the chance. He licked at one nipple, gently sucking and occasionally giving it a nip. His thumb was lazily rubbing the other, making Sherlock squirm as shivers slithered down his spine.

He felt twitching in his pants and knew he would soon grow frustrated with the slow pace as his body would demand more. He took it all in a while longer before he needed John’s attentions to be focused lower on his body. He whined and bucked his hips, managing to rub himself against John’s waist. The friction made him gasp as he felt like he was finally getting some sort of relief from the warm haze that he was trapped in. The pleasure was great enough to shock his system, and once he felt it, he wanted more. His began grinding against John, his soft moans turning to longer and louder ones. But it was short lived as John sat up and pushed Sherlock’s hips down.

Sherlock snapped, hot and flustered, “If you don’t make me cum right now I’ll castrate you!”

John let out a chuckle at the threat. “Oh? I find that hard to believe.” He undid Sherlock’s button and zipper. “If you did, I’d have less to pleasure you with.” He winked as he pulled Sherlock’s pants down. He wasn’t going to lay with Sherlock then, he didn’t want their first time together to be on the sofa. But he also knew that Sherlock needed to reach the end and he was eager to oblige.

The last of Sherlock’s clothes were pulled away and he was left completely exposed to John. The cold air teased his skin and made him shiver.

John smirked at the sight. Sherlock was a bit bigger than average, but nothing he couldn’t handle. He was also beautiful. It was almost a bit overwhelming. Soft and pale skin traveling down to a patch of dark curls. He was hard and leaking with a soft pink head. John almost wanted to describe it as pretty. He took it in his hand. The warmth was enough to make Sherlock's lower lip tremble. John was soon hyper-aware of his own problem. He was twitching in his own pants, but he was more concerned with Sherlock than his own needs.

He gently moved his hand up and down making a low moan slip from Sherlock’s throat. He hadn’t meant to let it out, but it couldn’t be held back. There were a few callouses on John’s hand that teased Sherlock. His head went from side to side when he first felt the rough scrape on his most sensitive skin. It set his nerves on fire and he bucked his hips.

Sherlock tried to muffle himself as the whimpers and moans tried to spill out. It worked until John swirled a calloused thumb around Sherlock’s tip, making him throw his head back and let out a strangled cry. He felt himself leak a little more as he began softy panting. Each stroke pulled whines from Sherlock between his quick and shallow breaths. His hands gripped the couch after a moment of digging his nails into his own palm. He didn't know what to do with his body. He could hardly even think. All he knew was that the slow and steady pace was killing him. He needed more. His legs shifted to give him the leverage to thrust into John’s hand. He gently bucked his hips at first, but soon lost himself as he began quickly rutting into John's hand.

John let out a soft chuckle at how desperate Sherlock was. He watched Sherlock lose himself in the pleasure before ripping the control away from him, using his free hand to force Sherlock’s hips back down.

A whine escaped Sherlock as his hips were halted, he was on the verge of throwing a tantrum. Sherlock let out a broken whimper of anticipation which turned into a cry as he felt John take his tip close to his mouth. He felt himself start to leak, slowly dripping into John. He felt like he was on fire and he was aching to move his hips. The heat of John's breath was killing him. He opened his eyes and looked down at John. The eye contact alone make him twitch in John's hand and they both noticed. Sherlock blushed and John smirked. He looked absolutely desperate and he knew John enjoyed the sight of it. But seeing John there, his mouth so close to his tip, his hand wrapped around his cock, it was all too much and put Sherlock on edge.

John could tell so he gave a chaste kiss to Sherlock's tip. The genius let out a cry as he had never been so sensitive in his life. John gave a soft lick and a loud grown tore from Sherlock. John was having the time of his life getting to toy with his pet detective.

John slowly moved down to take him in halfway, relishing in how Sherlock's eyes snapped shut and his body twisted. Sherlock let out a long and low moan, his back arching and his thighs quivering from the rush of pleasure. John took his time pulling back to the tip, pulling a similar reaction out of Sherlock. “John, p-please! More!” His voice was desperate and broken.

John relented and moved faster, pausing at the tip to tongue it. Sherlock nearly shouted and felt his hips tremble. He threw his head back, unable to cope with the rush that went through him. Never in his life had Sherlock felt so physically helpless. For once, Sherlock had been forced out of his head and left at the mercy of his body, which was being owned and manipulated by John's skilled mouth.

Sherlock moaned out, his voice was low but loud. His moans came from the back of his throat and rang out. It was sweet music to John. Sherlock was overwhelmed and frustrated as he was stuck on the line between not enough and too much. It was enough to keep him satisfied, but not enough to push him to his orgasm. He was also battling the overwhelming desire to buck his hips and take all the pleasure he wanted.

John relished in Sherlock’s moans. He had a weakness, knowing that they were because of him. He knew exactly what he was doing and he loved it. He craved the fact that he was the reason why Sherlock couldn't think, why he was so flustered and loud. He'd done it. He'd taken the genius and silenced his beautiful mind.

He started to move his hand with his mouth, taking care of what he couldn’t reach. That drove Sherlock over the edge as a moan turned into a cry. He squirmed at the wall of pleasure that hit him, seeping precum onto the hot tongue that toyed with him. His body writhed and his legs started to shake as he was pushed closer to the edge. He could feel it was only moments away from him. He whined and lifted his hips up, needing it.

“I-I need it, I need it! Please! John!“ The words hurried out of his mouth between gasps and pants, he was sobbing them out, begging for release.

John groaned around him in response.

Sherlock’s body felt hot as his hips stuttered and squirmed, his legs were useless, his hands gripped the sofa, and he desperately tried to roll his hips. He suddenly needed more and more. Nothing was enough to satiate the need between his legs. He was desperate and panting. He felt like a feral animal in heat, but rather than being able to take what he wanted, he was at the mercy of John.

John’s tongue toyed with Sherlock’s tip and he sucked harder as his hand moved faster, each callous scratching Sherlock in the best way. Forcing him to call out his lover's name and plead for every last filthy desire he's spent his life suppressing. He knew what Sherlock needed and he planned to give it all to him. The posh, prideful, intelligent, and quick-witted man that he once was had disappeared, and was replaced with a lustful heathen.

He pleaded louder, his words getting muddled by whines and whimpers. His body twisted and shook as it was unable to handle the pleasure of John’s pace. His voice jumped in pitch as he felt something overcome him that he hadn’t felt in years. Everything felt so much more intense than before. He was right on the edge.

John knew what was happening, Sherlock was finally on the edge. He tightened his grip and let out an experimental hum.

The vibrations made Sherlock shout and his eyes rolled back. It came out strong, loud, and deep. Nearly a growl. He was an absolute animal.

He’d never seen Sherlock so desirous and needy before. The normally stoic and cold man was twisting, quivering, writhing, all because of John. He took the calculated prodigy and turned him into an incoherent puddle.

John continued to hum, occasionally chuckling at Sherlock’s growing volume. He raised his hips, offering himself up to John, a silent plea for more. His body was on fire and the pleasure rushed through him until it became too much. His muscles shook and his body shifted around, a hand clawing for purchase in John’s shoulder. A cry tore from his lips as his hips jerked and he threw his head back. Release finally hit him in such an overwhelming wave that his jaw dropped as if to let out a scream. No noise came out at first, until a broken sob burst through with whimpers and whines following it. Everything was too much as he shouted John’s name, trying to cope with the glorious pleasure by shouting and sobbing through it.

John pulled back some and braced himself when the orgasm hit. He watched Sherlock’s body become useless as shivers wracked through it. It was beautiful.

Sherlock’s body finally stilled and he was left to try to catch up on his breathing, occasionally whimpering out John’s name.

“Enjoy yourself?”

Sherlock only let out a groan, utterly wrecked.

“That’s what I thought.” John was quite smug and proud, even though his voice was groggy from sucking dick.

After only a few seconds to recover, Sherlock was already plotting his revenge. Or perhaps, it was a reward.

\- - - - -

About a week later and John was still smug about what he’d done. He would bring it up every chance he got. He was like a kid bragging about a new toy.

Every time he had tea he would say something along the lines of, “No matter how much sugar I add I can’t make it as sweet as you.” The first time he said it Sherlock nearly choked.

Every time they embraced John would say something along the lines of, “If you want my mouth again, I have no objection.”

Once while drunk he said that he was thirsty and asked Sherlock to take his pants off and give him a few minutes. Of course Sherlock refused since John was drunk, but it was still surprisingly effective and got him to blush.

He even went on a rant about how Sherlock has ruined desert for him forever because nothing will ever be as good as Sherlock.

“Why do you still brag about performing oral sex on me?” Sherlock finally asked, not understanding why John was so smug about it.

“Isn’t it obvious?” John threw back. “I made the man that I love turn into a needy heap and then you came for me. That was one of the best moments of my life.”

It got Sherlock to think back on the event. He blocked out the memories of the physical stimuli and he focused in on John. He saw things he didn’t notice before as he was a bit preoccupied in the. Clouds of lust in John’s eyes, pride, need, heat, desire, determination, and love. He saw everything he had missed before. John was proud that he pleasured Sherlock and he took pleasure in the fact that he did it.

Sherlock’s next statement was a bit embarrassing for John, “It turned you on.”

“Well. Well, yes. Of course it did. I loved every second of it.”

He tilted his head. “You didn’t fix yourself afterwards.” He commented.

Now John was blushing a small bit. “No, I didn’t. I cleaned you up and held you a while.” He reminded.

Sherlock blinked a few times. “You denied yourself, for my comfort. Why?”

“I love you.” He spoke as if it was obvious.

Sherlock had no more questions or statements after that. He had gathered all the information he needed. He also realized that his brain really did turn off when John had his hands on him.

They sat in silence, each doing their own thing. Sherlock was thinking and John was looking at the newspaper. But John was getting quite nervous. Usually when Sherlock questioned someone like that, he was gathering information to either use against them or to formulate a plan of action. Either way, John felt strangely targeted, but he wasn’t sure how it would play out.

He decided he was overreacting and he went about reading the newspaper, assuming it wasn’t anything he needed to worry about.

He was wrong.

That night he was laying in their bed, starting to curl up to get some sleep, when Sherlock entered with a determined look on his face.

“I’m going to have sex with you.”

As unsexy as the wording was, John’s dick had no objections and gave a responsive twitch from where it hid in John’s clothes and under a duvet.

John blinked a few times, nearly in shock. “What?”

“I’m going to have sex with you. Tonight.”

“And ..... you decided that, when?”

“This morning.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to.”

“Okay, what should I d-“

“You’re going to lay back and do nothing, absolutely nothing. Let me do the work.”

John tilted his head. “Sherlock, is this cause I sucked you off? I don’t want you doing this cause you feel like you have to or that you owe me, you don’t.”

“I know. I want to do this for you. Despite the blind lust you occasionally put me through, I do want this. Let’s face it John, we both need it. I had sex for money and you were muscle. I need to take control of my sexuality and you need to let go and let someone else take the lead.”

Had a previous partner suggested taking control, John would have laughed and shown them what for. But after all they’d been through he knew Sherlock was right and trusted him completely.

John gulped, swallowing his pride. “What are you going to do to me?” That was a question he never thought he would ask in the bedroom. But now that he was, it turned him on a bit.

Sherlock closed his eyes a moment. He seemed to be enjoying himself. “I never imagined that question being asked in such a sensual situation.” He smirked, “I’m going to give you what you need. I’m going to ride you, John.”

Holy shit.

John bit his lip, “You aren’t the only one with scars Sherlock.” It sounded less like an insecurity and more like a genuine warning.

Sherlock picked up on it, “I think it’ll prove a bit of added fun trying to deduce your scars.”

John knew exactly where his scars came from and knew that Sherlock wouldn’t be so amused at a few of them.

“I think we should get your deductions out of the way.” He suggested, sitting up and pulling his shirt off.

Sherlock eagerly watched as new territory was revealed. But his look of hunger vanished when he saw John’s torso. Small white marks littered John’s body, there were a few deeper ones that had become reddish-brown and tight, there was a burn mark or two, the famed bullet wound, and then there was the tattoos.

A couple letters and numbers on John’s left hip marked him for life via his old gang affiliation. On his other hip, a symbol to represent his job.

“Getting a tattoo was required, but there were times I had to blend it, so it had to be hidden.” He explained quietly. It was also done in a time where tattoos had not yet been normalized and were a sign that someone was likely trouble.

“They branded you.” Sherlock commented a bit bitterly. “Like cattle. Property.”

“I can understand if you don’t want to see it all.” Most of his scars came from being cut accidentally in fights, but a few were intentional and precise, as if someone deliberately hurt him.

As his eyes scanned John’s body, he realized that almost all of the scars had come from physical violence, and most of them were over twenty years old.

“John, you’re incredibly sexy. This doesn’t change anything.” Sherlock assured. His eyes then drifted to a port wine birthmark that was shaped like a poorly-drawn heart a little above his bellybutton. “Your birthmark is adorable.”

He approached the bed and sat down by John. “We’re both scarred and as for the tattoos, you can get cover-ups. Those are stick and poke, you can get something better.” He pointed out and he then asked. “May I have you?”

“You’ve had me since you deduced my limp was psychosomatic.” He confessed.

Sherlock smirked, “I knew I saw something shift behind your eyes when I did that, but I assumed it was admiration or annoyance.”

“Both.”

“Git.” He mumbled before leaning in to kiss John.

As they kissed, Sherlock slowly shifted to position himself above John.

John’s hands went down to either side of Sherlock’s hips and his thumbs slid under Sherlock’s shirt, gently rubbing across the skin there.

Sherlock smirked against John’s lips and the rubbing made him let out a soft whimper. He brought his hands down on either side of John’s torso. He pulled back a moment and watched John squirm, somehow unused to feeling small, but the sexual nature of the situation made it a bit different from when he would normally feel small.

He leaned down, aiming for John’s neck.

“Going for the neck, of course.” John mumbled.

“Would you rather I didn’t?” He challenged.

“No, please. Continue.”

Sherlock slowly kissed from the base of John’s neck, up to his ear. He remembered all about their conversation on sex and decided it would be fun to draw from the talk. He let his tongue run up the shell of John’s ear, making him gasp. “You’re so beautiful.” Sherlock purred out, “So handsome, smart, clever, strong.” He listed, feeling John shift under him, his words were working.

John was a sucker for praise, he let out a soft sigh and turned his head to give Sherlock more room, silently asking for more. Sherlock obliged and kissed all over, taking note of the places that made John shiver. His back arched as Sherlock would occasionally move back to his ear and tell him how beautiful he is in a low and sinful voice.

His lips focused on one area just under his ear, he kissed at it a while before he changed tactics and began nipping. John let out a soft hum, “Careful, you’ll leave marks.”

Sherlock smirked, “John, I’m not as prude as you think. I want to leave marks. I want people to have suspicions, I want them to know.” He gently bit down, pulling back with his teeth, letting go, and then going back down to suck and lick the spot. John let out a groan and turned his head.

Once the spot was red, Sherlock moved down to kiss along John's body.

The moment Sherlock kisses the bullet wound was the moment John realized what Sherlock was about to do. He bit his lip as Sherlock began to kiss every single scar on his torso. It was so sweet it almost made the violence worth it.

“Sherlock.” He breathed out the name in a sigh, the kisses were so teasing that he couldn’t keep himself together.

Sherlock took his time, marveling at the constellations of scars on John’s body. It was a perfect map to John’s pants. He was getting to know every inch of John and he loved every second of it.

John laid back and found his hands itching to wander. He let out a soft sigh as his thumbs slid into Sherlock’s pants, slowly caressing the sensitive skin of his hips.

Sherlock bucked his hips in response and then looked up John. “What did I tell you to do?”

John froze a moment before responding. He didn't think Sherlock was actually going to enforce his rule. “Nothing.”

“And what are you doing?”

“Something.” He answered with a smirk. He then tilted his head. “Sherlock, you can’t be serious.”

Sherlock was serious.

He removed his thumbs from Sherlock’s clothes. "Better?”

“It would be a lot better if you weren’t coherent.”

“Well Sherlo-AH!” John was cut off by a moan as Sherlock began palming the bulge in his pants.

He smirked as John shuddered, momentarily overwhelmed by the sudden pleasure. He closed his eyes and his hands reached for the sheets, gripping them while soft whimpers left his lips, his hips gently raising towards Sherlock like an offering. A breathy growl escaped his throat as his body became useless under Sherlock's hand, his snarky comments silencing.

“Hm, I think I understand why you enjoyed making me incoherent. It's quite fun. If I remember correctly, you also enjoyed not giving me what I wanted.” Sherlock pointed out, feeling a bit playful.

“I-I was only teasing.” John mumbled as he rubbed himself against Sherlock’s hand. He didn’t want Sherlock to stop so he grabbed Sherlock’s wrist to try and keep his hand there.

Sherlock managed to pull away. “Oh, so you can dish it out, but you can’t take it?”

John was frustrated and desperate. “No, no I can’t! Sherlock, please, I need it.”

He smirked. “Strip.”

While John tore his clothes off, Sherlock grabbed some lube and coated his fingers in it.

Before he got any further, John stopped him. “Are you absolutely sure you want to do this? I know it’s been a while for you, I really don’t mind.”

Sherlock nodded. “This is what I want, trust me.”

“Want any help?” He was itching to touch Sherlock.

“Certainly you didn’t think that would work.” He said as he slid a finger inside himself. It went in well and he got used to it faster than he expected. A second slid in and he took a moment to get used to it before he moved his fingers. He let out a few soft moans as a familiar pleasure came to him.

John's lips parted and his dick twitched. He shifted and felt himself leak a bit, it was embarrassing but he did nothing to stop it. He wanted so badly to touch himself, but he didn’t want to make Sherlock stop because he was “doing something”. He’s never really felt helpless before, not until now.

Sherlock slid a third finger in and stayed still a moment, getting used to it again. Meanwhile, John was in a state of disbelief. He couldn’t believe he was really about to sleep with Sherlock Holmes.

He considered himself the luckiest person alive when he saw Sherlock grinding back onto his own hand, moaning with three fingers in himself.

“Fuck Sherlock, you can’t seriously expect me to sit here and do nothing.” John said in a bit of a strained voice, he was throbbing and desperate.

Sherlock smirked and let out a moan before saying, “I do. Why? Is there a problem?”

“I’m desperate!” He was completely over Sherlock’s teasing and he was seconds away from touching himself.

“I know.” He rode his fingers a little while longer and then looked up at John with heavy eyes. “Get ready.”

A shiver went through John at the eye contact. He put on a condom and lubed himself up in under five seconds.

Sherlock was honestly a bit impressed and then moved to straddle John’s waist. “I love you, John.”

“I love you too Sh-“ John cut himself off with a soft grunt as Sherlock took his tip in.

He held Sherlock’s hips and his lips parted, he was panting already. But he wanted Sherlock to set his own pace.

Sherlock bit his lip, rocking back and forth on what he had in. He slowly slid down a bit more and then stopped when it got a bit uncomfortable. He let out a low groan and rocked back and forth again, taking in a bit more. The process continued until he was sitting right on John’s waist. He arched his back and set his hands on John’s chest to balance himself. Then he began to slowly lift up and then slide back down.

The friction had them both groaning. Sherlock’s were deep and low, while John’s were more needy and whiny. With assistance from John’s hands on his waist, Sherlock found himself getting a bit faster, wanting more.

John cried out Sherlock’s name and bucked his hips to meet Sherlock. He felt so warm and tight, it felt like he belonged there, it felt like everything John ever wanted.

“John, ah!” Sherlock wanted to protest John's thrusts and insist that he do all the work, but he didn’t want John to stop.

Sherlock finally found the perfect angle to hit his most sensitive spot, he cried out and clawed against John’s chest.

“Oh Sherlock! Do that again.” John called as he began thrusting harder.

Sherlock scratched John’s chest again. Until then, John didn’t even know he liked being scratched. Something about the way it felt, the way it looked, knowing that it was done out of Sherlock's desperation. He wasn't sure what it was but something made it sweet. But Sherlock already knew it wasn’t the scratching, it was being marked that John enjoyed.

Though the pace was slower than he preferred, John felt himself twitching inside of Sherlock, leaking into the condom. He was a bit embarrassed by how his hips sank into the mattress whenever Sherlock came down on him, he felt like he was the one really being fucked. With each bounce his hips were driven back into the mattress and his cheeks went light pink, somehow overwhelmed with the knowledge that he wasn't in control of what was happening.

Sherlock was riding at a steady pace, sighing and groaning as he watched John’s face contort in pleasure. The sight of John squirming and moaning only made everything feel better. John’s moans encouraged him to finally pick up the pace. He had never felt so good during sex before, this was different from anything he’s ever had. He wanted more, he wanted to go faster and harder but he knew if he did, his legs would give out before he finished. But it was hard not to give in when he was finally being hit at just the right angle.

John let a hand wander and wrap around Sherlock’s length causing the taller man to cry out, “John!”

John began slowly pumping his hand, letting his thumb swirl around the tip each time. His hand was slowly lubed by what Sherlock leaked onto him. He smirked and reveled in the little control that he had. But it ended when Sherlock got a determined look in his eyes.

Sherlock spread his legs a bit wider and began riding faster, bouncing harder. With his new position he was able to take John in even deeper than before.

John’s back involuntarily arched and he let out a few whimpers between his gasps. “Sherlock! Oh fuck, oh yes!” He suddenly felt a bit pathetic, but he could do nothing against Sherlock’s new pace. He moved his hips with Sherlock’s and pumped his hand a bit faster.

The added pleasure was driving Sherlock mad, he felt close, he needed to see the end. He found himself nearly growling with every exhale, he felt like an animal. He was mindless, controlled by John’s hand and the spot deep inside of him that his tip was rubbing against.

The sound of the near growl only made John even more flustered. It send shivers up his spine and made his body tremble. He reveled in the sounds above him and the feeling between his legs. Sherlock sounded like a monster but somehow it was the sexiest thing he’s ever heard in his life.

John’s eyes widened as he realized he was about to cum, “Sh-Sherlock!”

Sherlock already knew, he didn’t care, he didn’t want to slow down or stop. His moan of pleasure turned to a cry as he felt John pick up the pace.

It was all becoming too much for the both of them.

John came with a shout, accidentally giving Sherlock a squeeze but his hand didn’t cease in it’s movements. Sherlock followed only moments later, nearly falling forward as he released himself all over John’s chest.

John eventually recovered and he looked down at himself, he’s never been so happy to be a mess. Sherlock eased himself off of John and laid beside him with a groan.

John got up to take care of the used condom and to clean himself up. When he returned, he wrapped his arms around Sherlock and held him close, kissing his head and whispering praises.

It was late and Sherlock was worn out. But he still had enough stamina to smugly comment, “I left marks.”

John rolled his eyes even though he was a bit flustered. “Proud of yourself?”

“Immensely.”

Sherlock felt his eyes slowly closing. But just before he fell asleep, he mumbled, “I love you, John.”

John grinned and closed his eyes. “I love you too, Sherlock.”


	27. Golden Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John comes to realize that life couldn’t be more perfect.

“Sherlock, I swear I’m gonna stab you.”

John couldn’t be more irritated. Rather than asking for directions or looking at a map, Sherlock insisted he knew his way around Heathrow Airport. Of course, he got them lost.

“Trust me John, I know what I’m doi-“

“I highly doubt that, but I’m trusting you anyways for some reason.” John followed behind him wearing a backpack and rolling his suitcase along. “I really don’t see _why_ I’m trusting you, you still won’t tell me where we’re even going.”

“You kept our honeymoon destination a surprise, so I don’t see why I can’t do the same.”

They got married three years ago. Since then, John became a legal citizen. As a wedding present from Mycroft, the process was rushed and finished in time for their honeymoon. John took Sherlock to Japan, a place he was surprisingly familiar with, but Sherlock wasn’t sure how. Then again, he’s learned that John is full of surprises.

They made their way through the airport, Sherlock was very confident he knew where he was going. But after having to turn around three times, John wasn’t so sure about it.

“Does he really know where he’s going?” Asked a small voice.

John glanced down to the hand he was holding. Rosie, their adopted daughter, was also doubting Sherlock’s ability to find his way around.

“Oh, I’m certain he’ll find his way. He’s a genius you know.”

“Yea, you say that a lot. But I’m not seeing much proof.”

John snorted and Sherlock let out a chuckle. Insults were never fun, but they were a bit hilarious coming from Rosie.

“Ah, found it!” Sherlock said, finally leading them to the right gate.

They all sat down and John played with Rosie a while as he wasn’t allowed to look around because Sherlock was determined to keep the destination a secret.

The flight boarded and John found himself getting a bit excited. Of course he had his suspicions based on what they packed. It was obviously somewhere warm and by the coast.

There were multiple possibilities but he had a nagging suspicion that they were going to Adelaide.

He wasn’t entirely sure since going to Adelaide would be a gamble on Sherlock’s part. There’s a chance that he may never want to see Australia again, that being there will be too much for him, there are a million ways that a trip to Adelaide could end badly and not telling John could make it even worse.

It was a calculated risk that was made even worse by keeping it from John. He wasn’t sure that Sherlock would take a risk like that. But he still felt that maybe he was going back.

He wasn’t sure how he felt about going back. Part of him would love to see it again. But part of him is also worried that the version of Adelaide he has in his mind is idealized and that the real thing will be a disappointment.

It was midnight when the plane took off. He, Sherlock, and Rosie were seated together and decided to get some sleep since the flight would last almost an entire day.

The flight was mostly uneventful. They got mediocre meals, John watched an ungodly amount of movies, Rosie was a bit restless but that was to be expected since she was only seven, and Sherlock seemed a bit nervous the entire time.

John kept his tray table out and hunched over, sleeping on it, Sherlock slept sitting straight up, and Rosie was small enough to curl up in her seat.

They hit turbulence a few times and had to make a brief stop in India to refuel. During that hour pause, they spent the time walking around and finally getting to stretch their legs. Rosie was a bit harder to control as she only wanted to sprint and cartwheel around.

John sincerely regretted teaching her how to do cartwheels. Much as Sherlock regretted teaching Rosie how to make deductions.

“We’re going to see where dad is from, right?” She asked Sherlock while John was in the bathroom.

Sherlock looked at her, a bit surprised since she wasn’t even suppose to know John wasn’t from England.

“And how did you come to that conclusion?”

“Cause you’re both scared. You’re scared he won’t like it, and he’s scared cause he thinks he knows where we’re going. That means there’s an emotional significance tied to our destination.” She did a cartwheel while she spoke, then did a few more before continuing, “I know he isn’t from England cause he also talks about the beach sometimes. He talks about it like he used to live there, like the beach was his home. He talks about golden beaches, golden sun, warmth, he talks about it like he’s describing the cozy moments before you fall asleep at night. But he always sounds sad too, like he wants to go back. So I figured since there aren’t any warm beaches in England, he must be from somewhere else.”

“But what about his accent. He sounds like he’s from England.”

“So? My friend Natasha sounds like she’s from Russia, but really she’s from Poland, but her grandparents raised her and they’re Russian. So maybe dad came here when he was a kid and he was raised by some British people.”

“Hmm, you’re becoming a genius. It’s getting harder to hide things from you.” Sherlock complemented. “You are correct. We’re going to where John is from. Can you guess where?”

“Australia.”

“How’d you figure?”

Rosie raised an eyebrow. “Because the pit stop is in India, meaning we’re about halfway there, dad is obviously Caucasian, I haven’t heard him speaking an island language before, and he talks about warm beaches. That doesn’t leave many options and Australia is most likely it.”

“You’re right again. Can you guess which city?”

“Well, since you called it a city I know it must be somewhere significant. But I’m seven and I don’t know anywhere in Australia except Melbourne and Newcastle.”

Sherlock smiled, “You’re close Rosie. We’re going to Adelaide, but don’t tell dad.”

“I won’t. But, are you sure this is a good idea? What if his memories are better than what’s there and the whole trip is a disappointment? What if he doesn’t want to see Adelaide again? What if he gets sad?”

“I thought it over for days on end before I decided we would take this trip. I thought of every negative scenario possible and I came to one conclusion. No matter what, this trip will be good for him. If he doesn’t like it, he gets to say goodbye for good and put it in his past. If he loves it, then he gets to further engrain his hometown into his memory, he get’s to see it again. But no matter what, this will be good for him.”

Rosie nodded, “Alrighty then. You’re the genius.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “You’re the genius in training.”

Rosie grinned, “One day I bet I’ll be even smarter than you!”

“I’ll bet you’re already smarter than Uncle Mycroft.”

“I beat him at chess last week! But I think he might’ve let me win.”

“He probably did because you’re seven. But I’m sure you’ll be wiping the floor with him by the time you’re ten.”

John returned with food and they ate up. They didn’t talk much, except for Rosie. Rosie went on about some kids in her class and how they were currently involved in a very serious game at school.

“Basically, we all pretend that we can’t see or hear each other, no matter what.” She explained.

“Why?” John asked.

Rosie blinked a moment. “I ..... I don’t know.”

John laughed, “‘S alright, you don’t have to know. If it’s fun then who cares.”

When they boarded the plane again, that’s when John heard it clear as day. The flight attendant announcing that they were about to continue their flight to Adelaide.

He hadn’t heard it the first time they boarded the plane because he was focused on settling Rosie down.

But this time he heard it.

He closed his eyes and let out a sigh. He wasn’t sure how he felt in the moment. He had some doubts and some concerns. But he ended up smiling. He wasn’t even sure why, he just smiled.

Excitement bubbled up in his chest. He was happy.

He turned to Sherlock who looked a bit worried.

“We’re going to Adelaide? We’re really going?”

Sherlock nodded.

John threw his arms around Sherlock and gave him a quick kiss. “Thank you.” He said, wanting to cry as he was suddenly flooded with emotions.

He wasn’t sure what all he felt, and he knew his feelings might change when they actually got there. But nevertheless, he was going back for five days.

When they arrived, it was six in the morning. They checked into their hotel and slept a while longer.

After a quick breakfast, John immediately wanted to go to the beach. They were ready to go in a matter of minutes.

John packed his bag with some clean clothes, sunscreen, towels, water, and snacks.

They headed out and John had to force himself not to sprint into the water. They unpacked and John spent a good three minutes just looking at the water.

He was overwhelmed.

Rosie stormed the ocean and jumped in waist-deep water, getting pushed around a bit by the waves.

Sherlock took a deep breath and then took off his shirt. It was a bit hard for him. Not because he was still a bit scarred, but because there were a few faded hickies on his torso. He had asked quite politely not to be marked, but by the same token, he knew John wouldn’t listen.

He walked up by John and gave a shy smile. “Is it everything you hoped it would be?”

“Everything and more.” John mumbled, his voice heavy and a few tears spilling over. He blinked a few times and then looked down at himself. He debated removing his shirt.

He ultimately decided that he wasn’t going to let his scars and tattoos ruin his experience. He took off his shirt and joined Rosie in the water, soon followed by Sherlock.

Instead of gang memorabilia, his left hip had a rose, and his right hip had a perfect replica of Sherlock’s violin. Both only a little over two months old.

Rosie took one look at John and she frowned. “You .....” she trailed off, unsure of what to make of what she saw. She didn’t expect all those scars and marks.

John took a deep breath, not wanting to lie. “I was homeless, Rosie. I didn’t have parents. I never did. Just me and aunt Harry. I did whatever I could to keep her safe and fed. I’ll tell you more when you’re older.”

That was enough for Rosie and she kept on playing.

While they hung out in the water, Sherlock began throwing out all the ways they might die in the ocean. From the statistical chance they’ll die via shark to the chance they’ll be run over by a boat.

“Alright, enough of that.” John said, going deeper in the water. Then he went deeper, and deeper, until his feet didn’t touch the ground anymore.

“John you maniac! Get back here right now before you get hurt!” Sherlock called out.

“No.” John called right back.

Sherlock went in deeper and the water came to his bellybutton, he wouldn’t get any closer. “John, come back.”

“Do you not like the ocean?”

Sherlock shrugged, “I’ve never really swam in the ocean like this before.”

“Sherlock, nothing back will happen, now get your arse back there with Rosie before I castrate you!”

Sherlock hauled arse back to Rosie, who had waddled in by Sherlock, but had to stop a bit short of him when the water reached her torso. She wasn’t comfortable going any deeper.

John rolled with the waves, jumping when they glided past him and just before they broke into the shore.

He spent some time deep in the water before he swam back to Rosie and Sherlock.

They were making a sandcastle.

John helped them decorate it with shells and rocks.

It was a perfect day to John.

Everything was perfect until their last day arrived. It was on that day that John decided he wanted to go back to his street corner.

After a bit of walking, they made it. They were settled on the other side of town, away from all the tourist stuff.

There was a street filled with cheap apartments, some shops, and a few abandoned buildings. John came to an apartment building on the street corner. Rather than going up to the building, he sat down near the alley beside it. On the other side of the building was the street corner where an old payphone sat. On the street corner diagonal to the one near John was a small three story building.

John sat there on the street, staring at the building. 

Sherlock immediately knew what was going on.

That very street is what John once called home, that payphone was once used to warn criminals about cops, and that building was once home to a criminal organization.

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Rosie looked up at Sherlock, they had stayed back a bit to give John some space.

“This is where dad lived, isn’t it? He lived on the street.”

“Yes, he did. When he was very little.”

“How little?”

“Since he was born.”

Rosie frowned, “I don’t like that. When did he finally have a house?”

“He and aunt Harry got an apartment when he was about thirteen.”

“But that’s old. Too old.”

“I know, Rosie.”

It was a difficult conversation, but Sherlock couldn’t lie to Rosie, and Rosie was too smart for her own good.

John wasn’t sure why he was doing this. But it was something he felt like he needed to do.

He looked around one last time, he even took a picture, and then he got up. He turned to look at his old home, he looked around a bit longer, taking in every detail and finding himself caught up in a wave of nostalgia. Then he turned back to Sherlock and Rosie, biding his old home goodbye, and returning to his new one.

On the plane back, John has a lot to talk about. While Rosie was awake, he talked about how amazing the beach was, how warm it was, how good the food was, he poured out complements and praises about Adelaide.

When Rosie went to sleep, John was a mess.

He started spilling details about his life that he had never admitted to before. Sadder details about his transition between the streets and a home.

“When we lived with Acacia, I never slept in the bed. I was always too scared. I was scared that someone would try to come in and steal our stuff or try to hurt us. I always slept under the bed because it was safer there, because I could watch out for us and not be seen. Harry hated it but she couldn’t convince me to sleep in the bed. When we got the apartment, she wanted me to have the bed. I told her I would only sleep under it again. So she made me have the couch. It was hard and lumpy but it was the closest to a bed I ever had. The army wasn’t too much better. My first stay in a real bed was at the hospital. When I woke I, I thought I was dead because I’d never been so comfy before. I asked the nurse if he was an angel and he almost fell down laughing. Food was something else. The first meal Acacia ever gave us I almost couldn’t eat. I was used to whatever food I could buy for cheap, steal, or scavenge. I never had anything really sweet or spicy before. She loved spices. I wasn’t used to eating three meals a day until I was in the army because that was the first time I ever got three meals a day after her. And air conditioning, it felt like it was freezing. In our apartment we always kept it warm because England is far too cold. I still think it is. I remember the first time I saw it snow in London I thought it was a blizzard. I thought ..... I thought we were going to die. I thought we would get hypothermia and freeze to death on the streets. I’d never been so scared before.”

He kept on going, unloading everything. But in the end, he felt better.

Sherlock suddenly found himself understanding why John disliked the snow so much. Snow was deadly for him, it was a threat.

Sherlock was just thankful that John had fun and didn’t hate him. This turned out much better than he could have hoped.

When they made it back to London, John was exhausted, but he also couldn’t have been happier.

He did it. He really did it. He took the shit life he was given, he made his mistakes, made something of himself, served in the army, saved lives in the hospital, hunted killers, married an absolute bombshell of a man, and has the best daughter in the world.

He finally understood that his life, although flawed, was absolutely perfect. Alongside his beaches, John now saw flat 221B with a golden and warm haze.

“I love you Sherlock. Really, I love you. I love you more than I ever thought possible to love another person. I love you, so much. I love you so much that sometimes I don’t know what to do with myself.” He looked up with a dreamy look in his eyes. “I need you to know that I am so deeply in love with you.”

Sherlock blushed and smiled, “I love you too John. I love you so much that it scares me because it’s made me realize that nothing in this world is more important to me than you and Rosie. I never prioritized people before, and now work comes second in my life. You changed me, John. In the best way possible. I’m honored to have been lucky enough to marry you.”

John, Sherlock, and Rosie, living warm and golden days as a family in 221B. Filled with love, copious amounts of sarcasm, and a passion for chasing killers through the streets of London.


End file.
